Darkling Army
by TheCatDidIt XBLX
Summary: Dudley and his gang play a harmless Halloween prank on Harry Potter, but little did they know that what they did was more than a simple prank. Sometimes even muggle magic can work in the right circumstances. Harry has to learn to control his new 'ability' and find out what his demonic minions are truly capable of. WIP.
1. Chapter 1: Halloween Detention

**A/N**

This fic is something I am doing purely for fun, with no set writing schedule. I do have a few notes on the next few chapters, but there will be no updated schedule, chapters are done when they're done.

Most of my creative works are short stories/novellas. This is is me working on something long-form and multi-chaptered. Please review, I love feedback and constructive criticism. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Tuesday 31** **st** **of October 1989**

It was Halloween. Not a time of year Harry particularly liked. Aunt Petunia had told him his parents had died on Halloween, drunk behind the wheel after a party. Apart from that Harry didn't know anything more about his parents, not even their names. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hated when he asked questions, especially about his parents. The Potter's were a forbidden topic in the Dursley household and Harry had learned the hard way to hold his tongue as best he could. It was strange feeling, not knowing one's parents, an empty roiling sensation deep in his belly. Had they meant to abandon him? Did they love him? Would they be proud of him if they were alive now?

Harry sometimes tried to imagine what they must have looked like, did he look more like his mum or his dad, or maybe a mix both of both? Sometimes, when he thought very hard and tried to remember back to that fateful night, he got an impression of red hair. A brilliant fan of auburn strands overcome by a sinister flash of green. Lights from the car crash maybe? His scar itched uncomfortably as he thought back to that night, and he rubbed the mark on his brow distractedly. The scar was the only reminder he had of his parents and of that fateful night. It was a thin and jagged line in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead. Despite having the scar for a great many years, it still looked red and brand new, as if it had only recently begun to heal over. Of all his physical features, he liked his distinctive scar the most, although it did tend to draw the attention of teachers and other children. Unfortunately, his hair defied gravity at the best of times and refused to sit flat over the scar whenever he wanted to hide it.

Harry glanced to the clock, only a few more minutes of detention left. Mr Emerson looked like he was asleep, and so did several of the other students. Most teachers would have them do lines or homework in detention, but Mr Emerson was an old and decrepit man that fell asleep in the middle of his own classes. The teacher snored loudly and the magnificently large grey moustache atop his lip twitched dramatically, creating the impression of an agitated spider about to leap upon its prey. Crossing his arms across the scratched desk, Harry fidgeted restlessly with the frayed threads on the sleeves of his thin and oversized school jumper. Resting his cheek against his forearms and directing his green eyes out the grimy window, he tried to think of anything except his unknown parents. But the more effort he put into _not_ thinking about it, the more difficult it became to banish the morose thoughts.

* * *

Harry was startled out of his doze when an alarm on Mr Emerson's desk began to ring loudly. The old teacher snorted and jerked awake, coming perilously close to toppling backwards off his chair. Slamming his hand down with a surprising show of force, the alarm abruptly cut off under the pressure of the wrinkled hand. Dazed students groggily blinked the sleep out of their eyes and waited for the dismissal of the teacher, which came out as an incomprehensible grunt and absent wave of a hand. Gathering his notebook and pen, Harry wasted no time in stuffing them unceremoniously into his backpack and making a speedy escape. He hadn't deserved the detention in the first place and had no intention of staying any longer than necessary. Anger bubbled in his chest as he thought of his cousin Dudley, a morbidly obese bully with a flop of blonde hair and considerable lack of intelligence. Harry often thought he looked like a pig in a wig, and acted like one too.

Heading out of the detention classroom in the direction of the library, Harry was determined to avoid attention from staff and any students on the school-grounds. The chances of running to other students at this time was higher than usual, not just because of football training on Tuesday afternoons, but because of the Halloween Party that was being held at five o'clock for all students.

"Hey, shouldn't four-eyes be done with detention by now?" a reedy voice asked from around the corner.

Harry froze in his tracks, the voice belonged to Piers Polkiss, Dudley's best friend. Not wanting to get caught out, Harry scanned the corridor for an escape route. He could go back the way he came, or risk the nearby classroom door. He made the decision in a split second and darted over to the door. He tried to be as silent as possible, and hoped fervently that door would be unlocked. Reaching for the handle, he was dismayed when it would not budge.

"Yea, why don't we go find him and tell him thanks for getting us out of trouble!" replied the voice of Richard Sellicks.  
Obviously they didn't really mean to thank him, Harry thought, the tone of voice was far to cruel and insinuating. Not to mention, he doubted that Dudley or his gang would ever sincerely thank him for anything.

Harry panicked, if he started running they would hear him and give chase. He was fast, but it was a risk. The footsteps of the gang were getting closer, and he turned to the door, wishing that it was only jammed and not locked. _Come on, open! Please, just open!_ he thought anxiously. His heart was pumping hard and fast in his chest, blood rushing to his head as adrenaline flooded his system. As laughter drew closer to him, his panicked nerves frayed, and a rush of _something_ went through his spine and sparked out of his fingers. The door clicked and the handle gave way. Stumbling into the empty classroom, Harry quickly hid behind the door, closing it as slowly as he could to avoid drawing attention from the boys which had just turned the corner.

Harry's breathing was fast and shallow, but he clamped his hands tightly over his mouth and nose to smother the sound. The voices and laughter approached, Harry stilled his entire body. Tense and ready for fight for flight, he trembled and wondered if the beating of his heart would give him away by how loudly it was thundering in his chest. The wait for the danger to pass was agonisingly slow, each second an eternity in itself.

Eventually, silence reigned supreme and Harry allowed himself to relax. He slumped down heavily, gulping down breaths of air and giving his pulse time to settle back to its normal pace.

Dudley was the leader of small posse of five children. His best friend was a skinny, rat-faced boy names Piers Polkiss. Piers was thin and fast, and was very good at catching up with children who tried to escape the gang. Despite being a fast runner himself, Harry was caught and tackled by Piers just as often as he got away. Without Piers, Harry would have no trouble escaping the rest of the gang.

Ranked second after Piers was Richard Sellicks, a broad-shouldered youth with a posh accent and talent for coming up with pranks that promised pain and humiliation for their victim. Their victim usually being Harry. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon strongly approved of the friendship between their darling 'Dudders' and Richard Sellicks, as the Sellicks's were a rather upper-class family from the 'right sort of crowd' as Uncle Vernon would say. Richard was well liked by most teachers, and was the best of the lot at talking the gang out of trouble and making it out as if Harry was the guilty party. The boy had cruel glint to his dark eyes, and took great pleasure in tormenting children of all ages.

On the other hand, there was Barry Topps, the son of a man who worked on the factory floor of Grunnings Drills. Uncle Vernon regularly complained about his employees during dinner, calling them 'needy sods' who "are always asking for more pay and better conditions, as if Grunnings is a charity or some nonsense". Barry was probably only friends with Dudley because of pressure from his father, Harry thought. Even Dudley, who was as thick as a brick wall, thought Barry was a bit dim. The square faced boy had a permanent look of confusion on his face and was capable of understanding only the simplest of instructions. Dudley was more than happy to boss the poor boy around and let him take the fall for any trouble they got into. In all honesty, Harry wasn't sure if Barry enjoyed being a bully, but he never stood up for any the of the gang's victims and never pulled his punches, so Harry didn't feel particularly forgiving either way.

Ellis Roberston was another of Dudley's gang, he had a wicked temper and often got into trouble during class time. He got caught often enough, as he had a tendency to lash out at every perceived insult sent his way. The teachers gossiped with each other, saying how nice and thoughtful Dudley and Richard were in reaching out to the troubled boy. Richard, with his smooth tongue, didn't hesitate to play into the misconception and covered for the boy with outrageous lies about Ellis having difficulties with his home life.

The last member of the gang was Finley Burne, a boy as large as Dudley and just as nasty. The two of them with Barry and Ellis were a tag team in intimidating younger and smaller children, stealing snacks, lollies, and money from their prey. Barry and Piers acted as lookouts, with Richard distracting any teachers heading their way.

The six of them had earned Harry his detention by making a mess of the art supplies room during lunch time. Mrs Cart, an elderly dumpy woman with an ostentatious blonde wig and stern expression, had discovered the mess shortly after the break and made known her disappointment and anger at the offending party during the next class. Dudley and his gang had all immediately raised their voices, stating that they had seen Harry loitering around the room during lunch time. Even though the other students had spotted Harry hiding out by the library during lunch, no one dared to go against the intimidating bullies. They were too scared that they would be next, and they were all happy enough to let oddball Harry, with his baggy clothes and broken glasses, to be the favoured punching bag of Dudley. Mrs Cart hadn't bothered to hide her exasperated sigh at another of Harry Potter's misdeeds, and immediately issued him with a detention slip. Harry knew better than to protest, the teachers never believed him anyway and the other students just looked away and avoided eye contact if he passed his pleading gaze over them.

Later that afternoon in detention he was being ignored by the sleeping teacher and dozing students that he didn't even look at or acknowledged. There was no point in trying to be friendly with them, none of them would risk coming to the attention of Dudley and his gang. All the students, even the older ones, were terrified of being associated with Dudley's favourite victim, it would bring them too much trouble.

Harry was always Dudley's favourite prey, and having just avoided another confrontation he was keen to slip away to his favourite hiding place, a storage cupboard beneath the stairs in the library. Knowing that he'd probably be going to bed hungry and getting a good smack from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, he decided regardless to stay at school after his detention.

There was never much opportunity for a freak like him to go to any sort of party, and he longed to find out what it was like to be part of one for just once in his life. He was in luck, because tonight was Halloween and the school was holding a small event for the was no chance with him getting into trouble with the school for attending.

There would be music, snacks, and teachers would have all sorts of games for everyone. In previous years Harry had not been allowed to go when the Dursley's took Dudley, and instead was locked in the cupboard. But now was his chance to have fun, even if did cost him later. It would be a little while more to wait, but Harry was comfortable in his little nook in the library, as much as it reminded of his 'room' back at Privet Drive. Sure, it was a little filthy, and there were cobwebs and spiders all around, but he felt safe in the small space. An oversized beach ball like Dudley would have a hard time fitting through the entrance, so Harry was confident he would not be found too quickly if they came looking. It probably helped that the whole band of pre-pubescent thugs were allergic to books, decreasing the chance of them being anywhere near the library by a considerable amount. Not to mention, they had been heading in entirely the opposite direction when Harry had narrowly avoided them.

To pass the time, Harry pulled a book out of his bag. He hadn't bothered to get the book out during detention, too ashamed and embarrassed about the possibility of other students seeing it. Despite being nine years old, he was holding a picture book aimed at much younger children. The truth was, that Harry was far behind his class mates when it came to class work. The Dursley's hadn't cared about teaching him things like reading and writing. Even when starting school at the age of 5, all the other students had at least some grasp of basics, but Harry was starting from scratch. He tried to hide it as best as he could, embarrassed by his incompetence and the skill of the other children. It worked well enough considering that the Dursley's enjoyed telling the teachers about what an utter misbehaving menace he was. With the seeds of suspicion already planted in the minds of the teachers, Harry escaped their notice and slipped through the cracks, his progress determined more by his own will to learn rather than the pace of the classroom.

It was slow going at times, but having a moment of quiet was a good opportunity to enjoy a short picture book about a princess with a paper bag dress challenging a dragon. The silly story was a spark of brightness in his dull and miserable life. He took his time, sounding out the letters bit by bit, having to guess some of the harder words. He glowed in self-satisfaction every time he learned a new word, but it faded rapidly when there was no one to share his achievements with. Even if he _did_ have someone to share with, they would surely laugh if they knew how far behind he really was.

* * *

As the day darkened, Harry eventually slinked out from his hiding place. Heading around the buildings to where the assembly hall was by the oval. As he neared, he could hear that the preparations were nearly completed. There were streamers, silhouette cut outs of witches, hats, and cauldrons, and plastic critters like spiders, bats, and snakes hanging from the ceiling and stuck to the walls. Trestle tables with festive tablecloths were set up along the back wall, with parents setting out bowls of sugary snacks, pies, and pasties, as well as popular varieties of fizzy drink and juices.

A jolly looking older man was in one of the corners of the room, filling up balloons with helium from a large tank set up beside him. Some of the children that had arrived early to help were busy scribbling on the balloons, drawing silly faces or writing short messages. Harry could spot at least one _Happy Birthday_ message on a balloon. Obviously, someone thought that they were being very funny, or maybe someone did have a birthday today and would be pleased to see it.

Harry sulked by one of the windows as he watched more tables and activities being set up, wary of being seen and being pulled into the chaos taking place. He watched enviously as other children laughed with their parents or with teachers. After all, he was a trouble maker, and adults were suspicious of him. His sense of fashion certainly didn't help, he looked like a delinquent in his ratty and oversized uniform, courtesy of Dudley.

Still watching the preparations with rapt attention, he could feel anticipation bubbling up inside him. He couldn't wait to try some of the fizzy drinks, and maybe some sweets too. The Dursley's barely fed him properly, and sugary treats were reserved especially for Dudley and never him.

So distracted was Harry with his thoughts that he never noticed the figure creeping up behind him. He couldn't even make a sound of surprise as he was grabbed from behind. A hand slapping down hard over his mouth, while another arm wrapped around his waist. He struggled briefly as the larger form dragged him backward a few steps, and turned slightly. The turn brought Harry face to face with Dudley, who was smiling gleefully.

"We've been looking for you, freak." said Dudley, stepping forward and punching Harry hard in the gut. Harry groaned in pain, but his struggling was too weak to free himself from whichever boy was holding him tight.

"I hope you like Halloween surprises," continued Dudley, "because we have a special one 'specially for you."  
The sniggering from Dudley was far from pleasant, and for the second time that afternoon Harry felt the insidious creep of panic and fear.

* * *

And there's chapter 1. Next chapter we find out what Dudley and his gang have planned for poor Harry. Follow to find out!

As usual, reviews feed the muse and critiques appreciated.

Cover art is Night Call by ligga on

7/11/17: light editing for typo's


	2. Chapter 2: The Sacrifice

**A/N**

Here is chapter 2. Enjoy and please review. Posted earlier than I intended, I thought since it was done best to get it out of the way before I forget.

* * *

Last chapter: Harry had detention, narrowly avoided Dudley's gang only to get caught later while distracted watching Halloween party preparations.

* * *

Harry wasn't too pleased with how the afternoon was turning out, a veritable disaster really. The boy with the vice grip around him turned out to be Barry. Dudley, just to make sure that he wouldn't get away, landed a few more punches on him. Harry knew that by the end of the night he'd have bruises all over and be tender for days.

He was dragged out of the main building and into the sports shed by the oval. Football practice had finished around half an hour ago, and normally the shed would be locked up by now. Knowing the gang as well as he did, Harry suspected that Richard had come up with some sort of plausible lie to tell the coach to keep the shed open later than usual. The shed was a large metal structure, which was used predominantly for storing sporting equipment. It was newer addition, the green corrugated steel structure having replaced an older and smaller rusting shed that had failed a safety inspection.

Barry manhandled Harry roughly and shoved him to the concrete ground in the shed. The gang had moved a few storage containers filled with balls off the side to make more space in the centre of the cramped shed. Bats and balls were all in containers (mostly big bins) by the wall, large nets for tennis and volleyball were rolled up and stacked in the corner. On the old wooden shelving units were various coloured cones, pips, and plain buckets with smaller odds and ends inside like gloves, padding, and paddles.

Harry groaned and sat up, but Ellis had been waiting for him and immediately sprang into action. His hands were grabbed roughly and he felt some weird plasticy material against his skin. He was being tied up.

Ellis came around to tie up his legs, and Harry tried to kick him away, but was ultimately unsuccessful. Ellis was fast and dodged the ungraceful kick with ease, delivering one his own to Harry's ribs in revenge.  
Harry whimpered as his legs were bound with skipping ropes, the smooth plastic digging into his skin with how tightly it had been wrapped around him.

Fear pulsed through his veins, and he concentrated on working his hands free. The knots were tight and strong despite the unorthodox material that had been used. Harry vaguely remembered that Ellis had once spent a year in the boy scouts, but was expelled after one too many violent outbursts. It was rather unfortunate for Harry that the lessons had stuck so well. Skipping ropes were hardly ideal for tying people up, but against all odds Ellis succeeded in his quest.

When Ellis was done, he stepped back and joined Dudley and Barry. The three boys were mirthful as they watched Harry squirming in his bonds.

"Ready to be a sacrifice, four-eyes?" taunted Dudley. Harry was momentarily confused. "It's real blood you know."  
"W-what?" Harry choked out. _Blood? What blood? Whose blood?_  
"The circle, you nit!" Ellis snapped.

Harry glanced around, reluctant to take his eyes off the three boys. The tension in the room sharpened and the panic and fear in Harry escalated dramatically. He was in the centre of a circle, painted in red. _Is it really blood?_ Harry thought. Some of it was smeared on his clothes from when Barry had pushed him roughly to the ground. Bile rose in his throat, he was going to be sick. It wasn't just a normal circle, he was in the middle of a big five-pointed star, and lots of little scribbles and shapes were drawn along the outside and in the spaces between the lines. He didn't recognise any of the scribbles that looked like words. A few of the shapes looked like crudely drawn animals _a wolf or a fox maybe?_ There was definitely a snake, and something with antlers. He twisted to look behind him, but the movement aggravated the bruising on his ribs and he winced, aborting the action. The three boys snickered at his clear pain. For some reason, the design looked familiar to Harry, he was sure he had seen it before, but couldn't place when or where that had been.

His deliberations were interrupted with the entry of Piers into the shed. Harry to paled in horror when he saw what Piers was holding – three dead foxes. They all appeared very squashed, road kill probably, and they were in varying states of decay with one looking particularly fresh. Piers came over and dropped a fox at three of the points of the star, two in front of Harry on his left and his right, and one directly behind him. The scent of rotting flesh reached his nose, making him gag and fight to hold down his growing nausea. It was disgusting and sick. The boys were about to sacrifice him to Satan in some twisted ritual.

Dudley, Piers, and Ellis took their places around the circle and began to chant in a language that sounded like Latin, or maybe it actually was Latin, Harry didn't know.

"Satanas sum Domine si vocare te," they began clumsily and out of synch, "educam exercitum vestru, egrediatur conquer mortale realm," Did he just hear something about conquering a realm? It was hard to tell, each of the boys had ridiculously different pronunciation, and Barry seemed to be struggling the most – he was holding a piece of paper in front of him and reading off it.  
"Satanas Domino sum primus," Dudley was moving forward, a malicious smile on his face and a shining knife in his hand. "Venite ad hoc planum!" The boys shouted the last part, causing the windows to begin rattling in their frames and for one of the ball bins to explode, sending tennis balls bouncing across the room. Dudley swung his knife down and Harry screamed in pure terror, a warm wetness spreading across his trousers.

But the knife never made contact, Dudley had never meant to strike him with it. The boys were howling with laughter. Harry could hear Richard's uncontrollable guffawing from outside, he had been rattling the windows. The tennis ball explosion had been the result of Finley lying in wait in the ball bin to jump out at the right moment.

"I can't believe he actually pissed himself!" Ellis choked out in between laughs.

Harry's terror rapidly turned to shame and humiliation, he could feel the blood rushing to his face, and he shivered as the wetness in his trousers turned cold.

"What a total loser!" Dudley said to his friends.

A sharp feeling lanced through his body, igniting his anger. "SHUT UP!" Harry shouted at his tormentors, hot blood pounding through his head and turning his vision red.

"I think he still needs lesson." said Richard as he entered the shed. He had a cruel smile on his face, and Harry could see that the boy still had more planned.

Harry tried to wriggle away as Richard came toward, but could do nothing to avoid being lifted by his collar and being punched in the face. His round wire-rimmed glasses went flying, and were crushed under Ellis's foot. Finley climbed out of the tennis ball bin behind him, and aimed a kick at his back where his arms were tied. Harry tried to curl into himself to protect is his front, but it was difficult with his arms still tied behind his back. He arms were aching and the smell of urine only seemed to exaggerate the existing smell of rotting flesh. He could do nothing as the cruel bullies stomped on his legs, kicked his arms and chest, and lifted him up to punch him across the face.

The pain was everywhere, and he could do nothing to defend against the attacks and taunting jeers. He just had to hold on, and eventually they would get tired. They always did. The damage they inflicted upon Harry wasn't severe enough to warrant a trip to the hospital, but it would take over a week to fully heal.

When Harry was starting to feel like he was going to throw up, they stopped.

"Come on, this place stinks. Let's go get something to drink." said one of the boys.

He didn't know which one had spoken, he was too exhausted to care. Relief at finally being left alone flooded his body. The door to shed slammed shut as the boys left, and he was content to just lie on the floor and gather his energy. Blood was dripping from his nose and he could feel bruises forming all along his body. Dudley and his gang were ruthless and had no remorse. Harry wondered if they even understood right and wrong, or maybe they just didn't care.

He gingerly took stock of his injuries. His arms and legs were worst off, the boys had also gotten in a few good kicks to his chest and tummy. His arms ached from the uncomfortable position they were in, tied behind him. His arms had protected his back, but he had strained against the bonds as his instincts demanded he bring his arms up to shield his head. He had taken a few solid punches to the face, and hoped that his nose wasn't broken. If it was, it would just have to heal on its own, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hated taking him to the hospital. It raised too many questions from the nurses and doctors, and it was exactly the type of attention the Dursley's desperately wanted to avoid.

Harry took his time with freeing his arms for the skipping ropes around his wrists. The knot had loosened during the beating, and he wriggled his hands carefully, he didn't want to hurt himself any more than he already was. After a few minutes of straining and twisting his left hand was free, and he used his nimble fingers to loosen the knot further, encouraging the thick plastic to release his second hand. When they were free he whimpered in pain as he brought his arms to his chest. His shoulders were sore and stiff from behind tied behind him, and were bruised from the kicks aimed at his back.

He gave himself a few more minutes of rest before sitting up, the movement sending jolts of pain across his torso. Untying his legs was far easier, but was hindered by the shaking of his hands. Harry gently rubbed the marks on his wrists and legs. The bindings had been extremely tight and had restricted the blood flow to his extremities. Feeling as good as he possibly could after such a vicious beating, he braced himself to stand up. The result of his efforts was a wave of dizziness so intense that it momentarily overcame him, sending him sprawling across the floor once more. A harsh tingling feeling swept over his skin, the most painful and electric pins and needles he had ever experienced. The sensation was overwhelming, almost physical in the way that it leached out of his pores, skittering and jolting across his skin like invisible sparks.

A chattering noise filled the room, a twisted parody of laughter that sounding eerily familiar to the sounds Mrs Figg's cats made when they spot a bird through the window. Looking up to find the source of noise, Harry was frozen in shock and fright to find the fox corpses were standing up. The chattering noise was coming from them, accompanied by occasional yips. The dead creatures were dancing around the edges of the circle, deformed and decaying limbs jerking in a poor facsimile of life. The chattering and yipping creating a rhythmic disturbing chant. The yellow glow of their eyes was unnatural and sinister, bright enough to be a source of light to contrast against the dancing shadows which they cast.

Suddenly, a fierce wind blew through the room. It was incredibly strong, creating a whistling noise that was grew steadily to a fever pitch. The equipment in the storage shed was picked up by the wind, the lightest of the objects being the first to be sent spinning around the room, the red circle the centre of a massive hurricane. Everything in the room became airborne within moments, even the heavy bins and shelving units scraped across the ground before launching into the vortex. Harry was utterly terrified, and if he hadn't already soiled himself, he would surely have done so again.

The whole shed began to shake violently, the windows smashing and sending glass into the deadly winds, steel walls and beams creaking under the assault of the maelstrom. Curling into himself, Harry shut his eyes as tight as he could, his hands pressing painfully against his ears to block out the sound.  
"It's not real." he whispered to himself, over and over again. But the storm didn't listen, the whistling becoming more demanding, louder, faster, more violent than before, attempting to pull the boy into its grasp.

An icy chill pervaded the room, so heavy and thick that the entire room froze in time.

The wind stopped.

Harry's breathing and mumbling was the only sound in the silent room. He glanced up momentarily, taking in the room.

Sparkling glass shards and battered sporting equipment was suspended in mid-air. The rising crescendo of chattering and yipping from the foxes was gone, the corpses collapsed on the ground like puppets with their strings cut.

He closed his eyes, wishing for the room to go back to normal.

The temperature in the room continued to drop, and the icy chill creeped closer to Harry. He could hear a creature, its rough rattling breath coming closer. But Harry refused to open his eyes, and concentrated on his mantra. He was too scared, no, too _terrified_ to do anything but lie there and wish for it to stop. Then he felt it, a hand colder than anything he had ever felt in his life, colder than the darkest corner of the universe.

It brushed lightly against his forehead.

His eyes flew open, a scream poised at the back of his throat, but there was nothing there. No freezing monster, no ice, the room was still. There was no wind, no fox corpses, no red circle, no broken glass. Everything was where it should be, perfectly organised and clean.

His panting breath came out in small puffs of mist.

He ran.

* * *

Please review, critiques welcome. Opinions on story direction also valued.

7-11-17: Light editing and additions to improve flow


	3. Chapter 3: Swarm

**A/N**

So what do people think so far? I'd appreciate comment on how to improve. I hope you enjoy the story so far.

Thank you for the follows and the faves, they make me very happy and motivated to write

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 **Thursday 2** **nd** **November 1989**

It was a mere two days after the Halloween incident. Harry resolved to put the whole ordeal firmly behind him. It was worse than when he had flown up to the roof of the school earlier in the year. This time there was no explanation, no matter how dubious. None at all. He had been bleeding, his glasses had been crushed, and he should have had bruises for days. Just thinking about it made him shiver, the icy chill of that night would not be forgotten for a long time.

He had escaped from that room, from the bloody circle, the mocking laughter of his tormentors, the stink of death and decay. He hadn't dared to look back, fearing that the hounds of Hell themselves were hot on his heels, snapping jaws filled with sharp teeth. Finally, he had stopped running; his lungs burning for sweet air, gasping for a deep breath. His legs were jelly, numb from exertion – the nerves too overwhelmed to process a signal. There was red _something_ smeared over his clothing, a mixture of the mysterious red substance of the pentagram and his own blood, it was all over his face too.

His glasses, which he had reached for instinctively, were not as shattered as he thought they would be. Clutched tightly in his hand, the round wire rimmed glasses were as brand new as the day he got them.

He had explored his wounds, he liked to mentally catalogue the damage done to him, another black mark against Dudley and his gang. But he was left in shock, there was not a single bruise, not even the hint of an ache in his shoulders. The redness on his wrists had vanished, leaving tan unblemished skin. As he stood there panting, he'd almost hyperventilated. Something as _freaky_ as this had _never_ happened before. Not once had someone so _inexplicable_ happened.

Severely shaken and disturbed by the happenings if the evening, he trudged home to the Dursely's, accompanied by the unpleasant smell of urine and a sense of humiliation so deep that he wished that the ground would open up beneath him and swallow him whole. A touch of fear still lurked in the corners of his mind, but he determinedly pushed it aside.

However, the fear didn't really vanish. Since that night he was more on edge, jumping at the smallest sounds. There was a mild itching sensation on his skin, moments when the tiny hairs on the back of his neck would rise, followed by the spread of goose-bumps on his arms. He felt it keenly, he was being watched. Someone, or some _thing_ was following him, its intense gaze fraying his nerves. He swore that there were moments that it creeped up on him, he could see its shadow in the corner of his eye. When he shifted he gaze, or turned to face it, it would swiftly retreat, the tension of being watched dissipating abruptly.

That's how it was for the next two days after that night. Always something there, lurking just out sight at the boundaries of his vision, never so brazen as to show itself fully. The Dursley's seemed to pick up on his tension, as did his classmates and teachers. They watched him surreptitiously, their eyes studying him when they thought the wasn't looking. He must have looked ridiculous to them, constantly jerking to the side in a vain effort to catch whatever creature was stalking him. He would never admit it to anyone, not that he did have anyone to admit to in the first place, but he was frightened. A profound sense of dread had settled in his bones and weighed him down like lead weights. He was finally going crazy.

' _What is it called? Schizophrenia? That's what this is, right? When people go mental and start seeing and hearing things other people don't'._ He knew that if he let on that some unknown and possibly supernatural monster was stalking him, the Dursley's would drag him kicking and screaming to the nut-house without a moment's notice and dump him there for the rest of his life. ' _It'll go away'_ , he thought to himself, ' _I just have to ignore it'_. Feeling drained of energy, he went to sleep, curling up on the thin mattress and covering himself with a worn-out blanket. ' _It'll get better soon'_ was his last thought before sleep claimed him.

* * *

 **Sunday 5** **th** **November 1989**

It didn't go away. It got _worse_. As the weekend got closer, the shadows increased in number, the feeling of being watched intensifying to such a degree that it was almost constant. There was more than one of them.  
Adrenaline was pumping through his veins from the moment he woke in the morning right up to the second his eyes slipped closed from exhaustion and strain at the end of the day. It was utterly draining, and the stress was building to near critical levels.

He was woken up by his Aunt at 8 o'clock sharp, the latest he was ever allowed to sleep even during summer holidays. Her shrill voice pierced his dream – a repeating dream of green lights and a high, cold laugher – and the banging of her fist against his cupboard door was just as impatient as usual. He was awake instantly; the reaction drilled into him for as long as he could remember. His sleepwear was an oversized shirt from Dudley, the article of clothing so thin and full of holes he couldn't wear it outside or around the house anymore. The clothing he had to change into was no better. Permanently stained from Dudley's appalling table manners, it was what we wore on the weekends and summer holidays. His school uniform was the closest thing he had to proper clothes, but even that was not perfect – ripped and tattered from cuts and scrapes (Harry Hunting was a sport that was tough on clothes), and washed-out from the strong chemicals used for removing difficult stains, like blood and grass.

He got ready in practised motions, changing into his day clothes and darting up to the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth. In less than ten minutes he was in the kitchen where he began his first chore of the day. Uncle Vernon and Dudley liked to sleep in on Sundays, but he and Aunt Petunia would be up earlier to cook a large Sunday breakfast. Considering how much Vernon and Dudley ate, large was perhaps a bit of understatement, but lunch and dinner would undoubtedly be feasts in comparison.

The kitchen and dining room were at the back of the house, and were exposed to the sun at all hours of the day. The morning sun was streaming in gently through the large windows and the french doors leading out to the patio. Thin lacy curtains were hung up, filtering and softening the light which reflected off the creamy walls and white marble counter-tops. The kitchen was bright and spotless with gleaming pale cabinets and shining appliances, the opposite of his dark and filthy cupboard with its spiders and shabby contents. Entering from the hallway, the kitchen on the right side of the room. The sinks were opposite the doorway under the windows, then the stove against the wall to the right, and the fridge and large pantry beside the doorway. Counter space was abundant, allowing for at least two people to be in the kitchen simultaneously. The cabinets and pantry were fully stocked with equipment and foodstuffs, an essential feature for a household of four people, two of which had black holes for stomachs.

The dining table was off to the left, a light wooden table that was large and round, with four very wide matching dining chairs. There was a lacy tablecloth over the table, although it wouldn't last long, Dudley was a master at destroying tablecloths with his atrociously messy eating. Aunt Petunia went through tablecloths almost as fast as Dudley went through a burger.

This morning Aunt Petunia wanted to prepare the eggs and baked beans, and had already started with her preparation. Harry was left with the bulk of the work; chopping and slicing ingredients, watching pans and pots on the stoves so they wouldn't burn, and setting the table in preparation for the arrival of Cousin Pig and Uncle Walrus.

Sunday breakfast was always a full English Breakfast. Without a word to Aunt Petunia, Harry started on the dishes assigned to him. He sliced mushrooms to be sautéed, and cut tomatoes in half with ease. He ripped the plastic from the sausage trays, and arranged them in a hot pan under the watchful eye of Aunt Petunia, being careful not to let the oil splash all over himself, but most importantly, not all over the stove. The bacon was treated with similar care, filling the kitchen with mouth-watering scents and the distinctive crackling and popping sounds of cooking meat.

Aunt Petunia manned the stove, occasionally flipping or turning something in one of the pans. A loud thumping could be heard from upstairs, indicating that Uncle Vernon and Dudley were preparing to come downstairs, lured by the delicious smells wafting through the house. Harry hurried on with getting everything ready. He filled the electric kettle with water and turned it on, knowing that Uncle Vernon needed to have a cup of coffee first thing in the morning. He pulled out a loaf of square sliced bread out of the breadbox and slid four slices into the toaster, the timer already set to two and half minutes. The timer was never to be touched, anything higher and Dudley would cry that the toast was burnt, anything less and it wasn't toasted enough for Uncle Vernon.

When the slices of toast popped, he transferred them to a toast rack, and placed four more slices into the toaster. He repeated the action twice more, until he had sixteen slices of toast.

Harry took the toast to the table, and placed it in the middle. Aunt Petunia hadn't finishing plating everything from the pans, so Harry decided set the table in the meantime, making sure to bring out a glass for Dudley who liked to drink sweetened orange juice.

Hearing Vernon thud down the stairs, Harry made his coffee, the exact measurements of each element burned into his brain. Two teaspoons of instant coffee, three cubes of sugar, exactly four fifths of water and one fifth milk. His Uncle had the bizarre ability to _always_ tell if it wasn't right. A useless superpower by all accounts, but never wrong.

The walrus-like man shuffled into the kitchen swathed in a blue striped dressing robe, he plonked into his usual seat, the chair giving an alarming groan at the heavy weight. Uncle Vernon was a large man, with light brown hair, dark beady eyes, and practically no neck to speak of. His moustache comprised half of his face, and gave him an uncanny resemblance to a walrus. The association was not dissuaded by the man's beefy anatomy and waddling gait.

Harry brought the cup of coffee over, and it was plucked from his grasp with not even a grunt of acknowledgement. He was always ignored like this, treated worse than a servant, more like a _slave_ ; meant to be seen and not heard, treated as invisible until someone needed something, and punished excessively for the smallest slights, regardless of whether they were intentional or not.

Seeing that Aunt Petunia had finished loading up several serving plates, Harry walked over to the counter to collect the large bowl of baked beans. Aunt Petunia carried the heaviest of the serving plates, the one with all the sausages and bacon, not trusting Harry to carry the plate without dropping something. There was a surprising amount of strength in her arms, which where incredibly thin and stick like. She was a perfectionist in almost every way. She cared for her appearance a great deal, spending at least an hour each morning preening, making sure her blonde hair was perfectly arranged, her nails flawlessly manicured, and clothing pressed until wrinkles were nothing more than an abstract concept. While Harry was capable at carrying out most of his chores with impeccable results, for Aunt Petunia would accept nothing but perfect, she still didn't trust him fully in the kitchen. He was, after all, only nine years old.

When the whole table was set and ready, Aunt Petunia took her own seat by her husband. She served Uncle Vernon a hearty portion, piled high as a small tower, and then served herself a fraction of that. Dudley was the last to turn up, still dressed in his pyjamas, wobbly belly hanging out over his low riding pants. The obese boy clambered up onto his seat and sloppily began to arrange his own breakfast, even larger than his fathers. Dudley dove into the meal, not even taking the time to say good morning to his parents.

Harry went to the fridge and grabbed the orange juice off the shelf on the door. Heading back to the dining table, he unscrewed the lid, and poured the juice into Dudley's glass, knowing that it would be better to do it now than have someone snap at him to do it later. He put the carton onto the dining table where it would be in easy reach, and sat down on the last remaining dining chair to wait. He never ate with the Dursley's, instead waiting for them to finish and then making do with whatever leftovers there were. Most often, he could count on at least a slice of toast and some baked beans, maybe some of the tomatoes and mushrooms if he was lucky. Only once or twice could he recall ever having any bacon or sausage, Dudley made sure to eat as much as possible, and Harry thought that Dudley did it just to spite him.

It was tedious, waiting for Dudley to finish stuffing his face. Harry sat on his chair, swinging his legs and focused on looking out the window. The feeling of being watched was not as strong today, a slight prickle, but not the overwhelming aura from yesterday. It made him nervous, yet none of the Dursley's were acting out of character.

"Damn it, blasted fork!" grunted out Uncle Vernon, interrupting Harry's focus. He looked to see what his Uncle was cursing at, and was immediately paralysed. They were all over Uncle Vernon. Swarming around his head and climbing all over the dining table. Harry was in complete shock, and stopped himself from crying out at the last second. Uncle Vernon was not reacting at all.

The _things_ spreading out over the table and its occupants were drawing no attention, as if they were invisible. _'Am I seeing things?'_ thought Harry. He watched as Uncle Vernon speared some sausage onto his fork, and one of the creatures pushed the chunk of meat off the end, sending it back down onto the plate with plop and a curse from Vernon. It giggled, a high-pitched sound that sent an icy shiver down his spine.

The creatures were tiny, inky black blobs. Some of them were like liquid, dripping and oozing along, moving in strange caterpillar motions. Others were misshapen globules which moved around by rolling or on spindly spider-like legs that stuck up in all directions, the number of which varied by individual creature. Some of them had sprouted wings, butterfly wings, bird wings, fly wings, bat wings, there was one that even looked suspiciously similar to a plane. The little one perched on Uncle Vernon's pest was smokier at the edges than the others, almost fairy like in appearance. It had a distinct humanoid appearance, with buzzing wings and very long thin limbs, but its edges were always shifting and changing, and it had no distinguishable facial features except for two gleaming green pricks of light. _'Eyes, maybe?'_ but he wasn't sure, although he did find the colour disturbing, eerily reminiscent of his own.

He watched with a sense of horrified amusement (a very strange feeling indeed) as one of the liquid-like blobs slithered over Uncle Vernon's face and dripped onto his moustache where it promptly got stuck. It writhed and struggled in the hairy trap, and was dislodged when Uncle Vernon scratched at his moustache, perhaps because he had felt the strange tugging sensation there. The little "fairy" on Vernon's fork was having the time of its life, giggling as it interfered with the functioning of the fork and squealing in delight every time the fork was shaken about by the beefy hand holding it.

Unfortunately, Harry's horrified expression did not go unnoticed.  
"What's wrong with you, boy? Out with it!" demanded Uncle Vernon, who had finally noticed Harry's rather blatant staring.

His brain stuttered to halt. He couldn't tell Uncle Vernon he was seeing strange little blobs crawling over the room, that was a one-way ticket to some mental institute for sure. He had to do some fast talking, preferably _now_ seeing at Uncle Vernon's beady eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

"Err, I-I just realised that I uhh… forgot to, uhm, iron your golf shirt. For today?" He winced as he said it, the last word rising in pitch like a question and sounding like an obvious lie even to his own ears.

"Well go get it done, boy!" Vernon growled out angrily, easily accepting the lie without further interrogation. Aunt Petunia didn't looked convinced but didn't argue the point. Dudley was oblivious to the world around him, a bomb could go off and he wouldn't notice.

Swiping a piece of toast, Harry stuffed it into his mouth and jumped out of his chair hurrying out of the room to a narrow laundry which ran parallel to the kitchen. The truth was that he had ironed the huge shirt and slacks yesterday. However, for the sake of his lie, he switched on the iron and set up the ironing board to run over the clothes quickly, in case either his Aunt or his Uncle came in to check his progress.

The quiet of the room was interrupted by a childish giggling. Startled by the noise, Harry looked up from his chore to find a small swarm of the little black creatures squeezing past the cracks in the door and through the keyhole to enter room. He was surprised by how rapidly they could move, and as they barrelled toward him all he could do was brace himself and pray. As they made contact, he let out an instinctive squeak, expecting some sort of pain or unpleasant sensation. They tangled in his hair, oozed up his trousers, and burrowed into his clothing. One spindly-legged blob even settled on the rim of his glasses. They were all making different sounds, the ones in his hair buzzing and giggling while others chirped, and the one on his glasses, was it purring?

They were not at all what he expected. They were strangely warm and soft, and when he reached over to pluck the spidery blob off his glasses, it curled around his fingers pleasantly. Gently, he dropped it into his other hand and stroked it with his finger. It responded by sprawling out on his hand and keeping a hold of his finger to guide it to the perfect scratch spot.

Confused, but feeling much calmer than he had in days, he felt some strange companionship with the inky blots, a smaller part of him feeling slightly unnerved by the immediate connection that had formed the moment he came into contact with them. Deciding to push it to the back of his mind, he stopped stroking the blob and pulled his finger free from its hold.  
"I'm a little busy at the moment, sorry." He whispered to it, not sure why he was apologising and wondering if it was able to understand him. While it didn't reply to him, it did seem to understand his words well enough. Looking sulky and bit put-out, it skittered up his arm and joined the rest of the swarm hanging off his baggy shirt.

As he ironed his Uncle's extremely large pants, Harry contemplated on what to do about the mischievous swarm.

* * *

A/N

Yay end of this chapter! Please review and tell me what you think, I would very much appreciate it.

Light typo fixes 14-11-17


	4. Chapter 4: Speak

**A/N**

Hello everyone, I hope you are enjoying the story so far. Thank you for all the follows and faves, I really appreciate it. Here is the next chapter :)

 **Last time:** Ignoring the strange after-effects of the cruel ritual prank the gang played on him, Harry tries to push the weirdness aside and get on with life. He develops a feeling of being watched, which grows more extreme over the days. One morning, he finds a swarm of strange inky creatures flittering around the kitchen, and forms a strange bond with them.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

Harry hated the winter months with a passion. November brought with it cooler weather, frosty mornings, chilly winds, and rain in bucket-loads. His clothing wasn't exactly the best for coping with the weather, he was often swimming in Dudley's cast-offs, the airy and baggy clothing lacking the ability maintain warmth. His school jumper was ill fitting, but at least the sleeves were long, the thin and worn material a flimsy barrier against the air, and worthless against even the smallest whisper of wind. His school slacks were constantly leaving his ankles vulnerable to the chill, but still, ' _better than nothing'_ he supposed.

Winter was easier now, a little more tolerable. The strange inky black creatures, which he had dubbed Darkling's in his own mind, were always with him. They were warm and soft, and seemed to sense whenever he got too cold, abandoning whatever mischief they were up to so they could settle around him, warm and comforting. Harry wondered if this was what a hug felt like? He liked it a lot.

Since the Darkling's had come to him, he no longer felt eyes on him, the intense itching sensation of being watched had vanished entirely. Maybe the Darkling's had been the ones watching him? He wasn't sure, and focused on enjoying the strange connection he had with the swarm of inky blobs.

He found them to be an endless source of amusement. They had a wicked sense of humour, and although they never strayed far from him and remained invisible to all except for himself, they loved to tease and play tricks. Moving things around, poking people, and tying shoelaces together, squealing in glee as their targets grew frustrated. He could never get in trouble for it, and it was harmless fun in his eyes, minor pranks with no real consequence.

They were also fiercely protective, Harry had found. The Darkling's were offended on his behalf when a teacher looked down on him, he had no idea how they had turned Mr. Farristers hair blue, but they never _hurt_ anyone.

That is until Dudley and his gang chased him through corridors and across the school.

He'd been panicked, adrenaline pumping through him as he ran from the taunting boys, knowing he'd be in for a good beating if they caught him. Reacting to his fear, the swarm had expanded around him, unlocking doors in his path and creating obstacle behind him by tipping over furniture or blowing rubbish into their faces. When Harry had turned a corner, and ducked into the library to run to the back exit, the Darkling's moulded themselves into a thin wire across the doorway he had come through, lying in wait for the next person to come through. Piers Polkiss who had come running moments after him impacted with the invisible wire. The Darkling's had been at the exact height of the boy's throat, the force of running into them had sent Piers sprawling backwards to the ground, the momentum in his upper body halting while legs attempted to keep on running. Piers had cried out in pain, a deep red welt forming on his neck. The angry red bruising stayed around his neck for days after, drawing concern from staff and parents. Normally, the gang would have tried to pin it on Harry, but the boys seemed disconcerted and a little frightened of him.

For the first time Harry was wary of the Darkling's, they had intentionally acted to cause harm to another person. While he had no love for Piers, it made him uneasy, knowing that they had the power to hurt people that couldn't even see them.

* * *

Controlling the Darkling's was his next goal, and he hoped it wouldn't be too difficult. They adored him and listened intently to every little whisper he sent in their direction. He started practising speaking to them, but only at night time when everyone was in bed. If any of the Dursley's heard him talking to himself they would suspicious, thinking that he was doing something freakish again. For once he actually was.

He started with collecting a small bundle of the Darkling's in his hand, maybe six of them wriggling and squirming around, pleased to have been chosen. Worms and snakes twisted around his fingers, snapping at each other playfully and nibbling affectionately on the tips of his fingers. One of Darkling's was a liquid type, pooled on his palm like a little puddle with tiny mouths that kept opening, trying to catch the legs of a spindly spider legged blob. The spider blob looked as if it was tap dancing, enjoying the game of keeping out of reach of the hungry mouths. Riding on top of the spidery one was a flying fairy type, as Harry called them. This one was a combination of hummingbird and humanoid figure, wings instead of arms, smooth long legs, and a long beak protrusion from its face. It bucked around on top of the spider, occasionally flapping its wings to balance itself.

"Hello, my name is Harry." He whispered to his handful of friends. His introduction was a bit bland, and more than a little late, but he didn't know where else to start. This was his first time properly sitting down with them for a chat.

The inky black Darkling's tittered and directed their attention to him.

Not quite sure where to continue, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"What are you?" he asked.

There was joyful laughter in response to the question, and the snakes and worms around his fingers curled tighter in a soft caress. The liquid blob stopped trying to eat the legs of his friend and vibrated in his hand.

"Right, stupid question, you can't talk." He said out loud, feeling a little silly. "Oh, I know, um. I'll ask a question, and uhh, if you wanna answer yes, then um," he trailed off, unsure. What could he make them do that would be obvious? Maybe, if focused on just one of them instead of all of them it might be a bit easier. Looking down at them, he felt the hummingbird fairy would be the best bet. It was the only one with eyes, two green glowing pinpricks, and it was looking straight at him.  
"If it's a yes," he repeated, "then move your beak up and down. If it's no, then shake your beak sideways. Is that ok?"

He waited for a response from Hummingbird, the unoriginal name he had bestowed upon it mentally. Hummingbird cocked its head before moving its beak up and down, once, then again, and again, and... it looked like it wasn't going to stop any time soon.  
"You can stop now! Just nod or shake twice, yea? Don't need to keep going." He said sheepishly, the creatures were mischievous and clever, but he'd have to be careful of how he phrased things from now on if the over-enthusiastic reaction was anything to go by.

Hummingbird, catching on, nodded only twice this time, chirping happily up at him. All the Darkling's seemed to like him so much, and it prompted Harry's next question.

"Are we friends? I mean, if we're not, can we be?" he asked, "Friends that is, I've never had friends before." He whispered, more to himself than anything.

As the questions came out of his mouth, his mind went speeding ahead. What if they said no? What would happen then? He felt a sense of panic creep up on him, and a sense of uncertainty tinged with a fear of rejection clouded his consciousness.

Hummingbird didn't waste any time and nodded energetically four times, responding to both the questions posed. All the Darkling's in his cupboard hummed and buzzed, a pleasant sound in the affirmative, each little one answering the question for themselves. Harry felt an overwhelming sense of warmth and comfort in that moment, his doubts and questions chased away by the swarm that filled his cupboard.

His misgivings were silly, of course they were his friends. That's what their connection, their _bond_ , was all about. The Darkling's belonged to him, and he belonged to them. The connection, it wasn't something physical, but it was a feeling, a presence between them. It didn't matter how they came to be or where they came from, they were a part of him now. Like a sixth sense, he always knew where each of them were, whether they were with him or nearby wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting victim. If he wanted one or all of them to come back to him, it was as simple as wishing it and they returned. He wondered then, if it would work the other way, would he know if they were calling him?

He decided to ask.

"So uh, you know how you do that thing, where you come back when I want you to?" he asked.

Hummingbird nodded again and cocked its head, curiously regarding him.

"Can you call _me_ if you need to? I was just wondering if you can, like what it would feel like." He continued, trying to explain what he meant.

Hummingbird chirped up at him, and launched itself into the air, wings humming as they beat faster than the eye could see. The bird-like creature flew up to the vents across the top of the door of the cupboard, and slipped easily past the metal, its body malleable and easily siphoned through the tiny gap.

Harry waited less than a minute and then he felt it. A powerful tug at his chest, he _knew_ that he needed to go to the kitchen. _Right now_. Hummingbird _needed_ him. He was surprised by the sensation, and a he itched to pick the lock on the cupboard and go out to see what Hummingbird wanted.

Then, like scissors cutting a taught piece of string, the tugging connection snapped and the impression of needing to go the kitchen vanished. Harry could still feel that Hummingbird was away from him, but the sensation of wanting to go to it was gone. _'What a weird feeling'_ Harry thought as he waited for Hummingbird to come back. He had some questions and some experiments to do.

* * *

His progress with the Darkling's was going smoothly. He knew they understood him, they never failed in doing something he asked. He was always careful in how he worded things, knowing they'd take every word seriously. He was also polite to them, when he asked them to do something he always phrased it as a request and used the word please. He felt bad if he ordered them around too much. He knew what that felt like, and he didn't want them to hate him or think that he was using them.

The Dursley's bossed him around all the time, and he hated them. There were some days when Harry was so miserable he just wished that they'd drop dead or set on fire, or something equally awful.

It was a Saturday the middle of winter, November was coming to a close and he was out in the garden which was wet and muddy after the weeks rain. Today was overcast, and there had been a light misty rain in the morning. It had since cleared and Aunt Petunia had ordered him out into the garden to weed and tend the plants. It was damp, cold, miserable, and downright dreadful.

Normally he liked gardening well enough, it could be relaxing when the weather was nice and it always pleased him to see seedlings growing and flowers blooming under his care. The plants could not taunt or insult him, and the small snakes that visited him in the summers were always delighted to meet him. There was an undefinable quality about being able to connect with nature in a such a way, and Harry was sure Aunt Petunia never felt as well as he did when she gardened.

On this dark overcast day he was freezing out in the cold, pulling weeds from the manicured flowerbeds. He had gently asked the Darkling's if they would help with the weeding, feeling that it would better to have the work done faster rather than be sitting in the mud for hours with them keeping him warm. It took a while to explain weeds to the Darkling's, he had to show them exactly which plants to pluck and to bring them over to a specific spot. They were hard-working, and it was funny to watch them. They became distracted easily and enjoyed play-wrestling in the slippery wet soil.

They had strange ways of pulling weeds out, those with the power of flight tugging at them from the top, the others burying into the ground and pushing them up from below while others dragged them over to the pile. They counted each pulled weed as a victory, and briefly celebrated the achievement. Their dramatic antics brought a smile to Harry's face, melting away his bad mood little by little.

Sadly, there weren't many snakes to chat with today. During winter they would find warm places to curl up in to preserve energy, only risking warmer winter days for a snack if they got too hungry.

The first time he'd spoken with a snake was an accident. He had been weeding the rose bushes on a sweltering summer day, the thorns leaving small painful scratches on his hands. The back of his neck had been burned severely, and he still remembered the way the sweat dripped from his forehead and into his eyes. The little snake had sought shade and moisture beneath the rose bushes, unfortunately right where Harry was weeding.

 _"Hey you, watch it!"_ it had hissed out at him.

 _"Sorry."_ Harry had replied automatically, taken aback by the sudden appearance of a green garden snake.

The garden snake must have been quite young, only around 30cm in length. It had been surprised by his reply, and regarded him curiously.

 _"You speak?"_ it inquired, tilting its head curiously, tongue flickering out to taste his scent on the air.

 _"Uhh, yes? I didn't know snakes could talk."_ He said, unnerved by the whole scenario. Maybe the heat had finally got to him and this was all some bizarre hallucination?

 _"It's not me that is speaking, human. It is you!"_ the snake said, interrupting Harry's train of thought.

His conversation with the snake had been nice enough in the end, but Harry found that snakes weren't particularly interesting conversation partners. They mostly talked about the best types of prey, or where the nicest and safest spots for sunbathing were. They liked to be praised on their scales the most, and had a blunt outlook on life that never failed to make him smile.

He was sure he had never seen a single other person talk to a snake, it was a shock that both frightened and exhilarated him. It was something that belonged to him, and him alone. He'd mentally filed it with all his other freakish tendencies, but this one was more special. Something that he could control, and which brought him happiness, not misery. The Darkling's were now second on the list, another group of friends that could never be taken away by Dudley or anyone else.

Since that day he made sure to talk with snakes only when he was sure no one else was around, there was no knowing what the Dursley's would do if they found out. Probably lock him in his cupboard for weeks, Harry decided, and Uncle Vernon would go on rampage with a shovel, chopping off the head of any ill-fated snake that crossed his path.

There was no such risk in this cold weather, and Harry hurried with his task. Once he was finished with the weeds, he discarded them in a compost bin behind the garden shed. He hoped that his quick work in the garden would not be suspicious to his aunt, but it was too cold to stay outside for very long, especially in his ratty clothes.

Before coming onto the patio, Harry washed his hands and shoes as best as he could under the hose. Toeing off his shoes he picked them up and carried them across the patio with him, entering the kitchen quietly. Luckily, Aunt Petunia wasn't there, so he darted into the laundry room where he dumped the sneakers in the sink to wash them properly. They were the only pair he had that were good for wet weather, so he'd need them for school on Monday, or at least any more yard work over the weekend. Setting his shoes to dry on a rack, he dropped his muddy pants and shirt to put in the washing machine and set them on a quick wash cycle. He cleaned his hands and arms properly with soap in the sink, and dried them with one of the towels that he would probably be washing later that day. Shivering in his undies, he darted out from the laundry and back into his cupboard, avoiding making too much noise in case he attracted attention. The Dursley's were all in the living room, Dudley watching some inane program on the television while Uncle Vernon snored into his newspaper and Aunt Petunia worked on some monstrously floral cross stitch project.

Safe back in his cupboard, Harry changed into some clean clothes and switched the light bulb above his head on. He had other chores to work on, but he had some time while he waited for his washing to be done, and once that was finished he would do the other laundry. In the meantime, this was a good opportunity to catch up on homework.

He pulled a worksheet out of his bag, which was stuffed onto one of the shelves. The Darkling's settled themselves around the cupboard. A few of them mimicked moths and fluttered around the light bulb, although they cast no shadow. Harry thought was very strange but didn't try to ask.

His worksheet was for his maths class, they were doing division. He didn't mind maths. He was awful at reading and found numbers to be much easier. You never got numbers that were silent, and they always meant the same thing and sounded the same. Words and letters always got mixed up, and sometimes words were said completely differently to all the letters that were in them. No, maths was much better.

Division wasn't really that hard, it was just splitting numbers up. What number would you get if you split this number up, this many times? Easy. The worksheet was tricky than earlier ones, they were learning about using decimals, and for hard ones he had to sit and think for a little bit, he didn't have a calculator to cheat like Dudley did.  
He was trying to work out sixty-eight divided by five, when a loud chittering interrupted him. One of the moth like fairies was tugging on his hair and trying to get his attention.

"What?" he bit out, a bit more sharply than he meant to. At first he had been annoyed by the interruption, but immediately felt guilty. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you." He mumbled, embarrassed.  
The little inky fairy huffed and fluttered over to some of its friends. He wasn't sure what they wanted but it seemed important somehow, having gone to the effort of getting his attention. There were quite a few of the flying ones, floating, flapping, and buzzing in front of him, organised in groups. Organised in groups… of five?

"Oh! I get it, you're helping me!" he whispered excitedly. He didn't know that they could read! He counted all of them carefully, there were sixty-eight. How many groups of five were there? He counted out thirteen groups of five, with three left over. So, thirteen and three fifths was the answer. Now, to get the decimal, well, he would just multiple the three by two, right? Five was half of ten after all. Feeling confident with his logic, he scribbled down a "13.6" on his worksheet. He felt proud of himself; even he couldn't read well, he was good at maths.

He worked through his sheet in record time, the Darkling's helping him out with the trickier questions. They giggled as they flew around and sorted themselves into groups, jostling each other good naturedly. When he was finished, he put the worksheet away in his bag and whispered a quiet thank you to the Darkling's, which took that as an invitation to surround him in a warm hug and make gentle, happy sounds of affection.

They really were the best friends he could ever ask for.

Unfortunately, his tender moment was ruined by Aunt Petunia. "Boy, are you in there?" she shouted, rapping on the door.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." he replied, loud enough to be heard.

Aunt Petunia wrenched open the cupboard door and glowered down at him.

"You better be done with the garden, boy. Or there'll be no dinner for you." She snapped out.  
"I did finish," Harry said politely and with an even tone, "I was just waiting for my clothing to finish in the wash before doing the rest of laundry." The Darkling's around him were hissing and making angry noises at Aunt Petunia, but Harry didn't react or try to calm them down while she was glaring down at him.  
"Well go hurry up, I won't have you doing nothing all day like an ungrateful brat." She ordered, voice sharp and unpleasant.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." He said, pushing down on the anger she elicited in him, oh how he hated her so much. He knew it wasn't normal for a little boy like him to be kept in a cupboard, he knew that other children his age didn't do nearly so many chores, and he knew that other children had _normal_ clothes to wear and shoes that fit. But he had to push down on the anger. He was still a child, and no matter how much he wanted to run away and leave forever, he knew he wasn't old enough, not yet. He just had to wait, hold on for a few more years and then he could get away, and never, ever come back.

Heading back to the laundry, he saw that his clothes on the short cycle were finished. He pulled out the small load and tossed it into the dryer. Going to the pile of laundry in the basket, he decided to start off with light colours. The peachy towels from the upstairs bathroom that he had wiped his hands on, socks and underwear, and shirts. He already knew off by heart which items could go in together, and which items would need to be hand washed or to be done at a different temperature. He threw everything into the machine without much care for the articles, and measured out the correct amounts of powder and fabric softener into the little draw along the top of the front loader. Switching on the right mode and setting the temperature, he clicked start and headed back to his cupboard to squeeze in some more homework.

Maybe the Darkling's could help him with reading?

* * *

I would like to know what people think.

Please follow and review, thank you :)

Light editing 14-11-17


	5. Chapter 5: Visit

**A/N:**

I super appreciate the guest reviews and all the follows and faves. Here is the next chapter, I hope everyone is doing well. I know the story is moving a little slowly, but I'm just getting a feel for my Harry and seeing how he evolves organically.

* * *

As the Christmas holidays approached there came an increase in tedious chores, and a slightly improved mood within the Dursley household. Harry had been skilfully avoiding trouble at school, largely thanks to his Darkling's. There hadn't been any more incidents like the one with Piers, he'd given them a stern talking to about boundaries and what would draw too much attention. They'd made grumbling noises but agreed to his terms. No drawing blood, and nothing that would intentionally cause visible injury. It wasn't because he necessarily cared about the welfare of other students or because he felt bad about hurting Dudley or his gang, he was protecting _himself._ The gang of bullies would not hesitate to try to blame Harry for any injuries, and then he'd be in trouble with the teachers, and the teachers would call the Dursley's. That was Very Not Good.

The Darkling's were helpful, scouting ahead so Harry had safe routes between classes or good places to hide during the breaks. They'd been testing how far the swarm could travel, and the distance at which in an individual could venture before feeling the strain of separation. Together as a swarm they could move quite far before the bond grew painfully taut, giving Harry a dull thudding headache. The Darkling's could move as far as the other side of the school. Individually, their range was much shorter, a classroom or two down the hall. A single Darkling had to maintain its connection with both Harry and the larger horde, limiting their range considerably. It was still useful to send out small groups which acted as an early warning system or as pathfinders.

The mental bond strengthened with time and practice. Although words could not be shared between them, impressions and emotions assaulted Harry with increasing frequency, giving him flashes of vision or conveying to him a particularly potent emotion. Harry wondered if he ever accidentally sent them fragments of his own mind. The visions he got from the Darkling's revealed that the ones with the glowing green eyes had incredibly sharp eyesight. They could see the texture of the grass and leaves, perceive the most minute of movements, and lived in a world of perpetual light, every colour radiant and bright with a life of its own. Nothing at all like his own dull and blurred-at-the-edges fuzzy experience of the world. Where he saw drab greys, muted browns and dead concrete, they saw a world of luminescence teeming with life where the connections between all living organisms were tangible threads tying them back to Mother Nature. Such wonderful visions filled him with awe and a sting of envy. How he wished that he could see the world in such a way for himself.

Dudley and his gang had the inevitable effect of marring a perfectly fine day, and avoiding the gang was a convenient excuse to exercise his new abilities. Like a game, it increased in difficulty as the boys got more and more frustrated with how he kept slipping away from them with ease. It was endlessly amusing watching them set ineffectual traps and sit in wait, only for Harry to never turn up and fall victim. They would wait and they would laugh, but as the minutes passed their boredom would grow. The angrier they became, the harder they would try to ensnare him. But for once in his life Harry was a step ahead. Maybe he would even try setting his own little traps, give them a taste of their own medicine. The thoughts of doing so initiated a sort of giddy anticipation.

The end of the school day was the most dangerous time for Harry. He would need to get back to Privet Drive, a sort of safe zone because the boys would never dare to do something in front of the neighbours, or, god forbid, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Harry's goal at the end of each day was to get to the house safely without the gang catching up to him. What used to be a frightening and anxiety inducing undertaking became a delightful game. The most direct path back to the house was the most perilous, and he wasn't dumb enough to take it. He did however occasionally start his journey on that path to lure the boys into a chase. On more than one occasion he had taken an overly circuitous route, or climbed up into tree or into a hedge to evade the gang as they looked for him. Other times he'd deliberately led them in circles or allowed them to catch glimpses of him disappearing into woodland, where they would follow and unavoidably become hopelessly lost while Harry giggled and was lead back to safety by Hummingbird.

He'd had a few close calls, when Dudley or Piers had been practically at his heels, but the Darkling's protected him, guiding him to a safe place and hindering his pursuers with malicious glee. He knew the gang was getting injured, but that was _accidentally_. It wasn't the Darkling's fault if the boys scraped their knees and palms when they tripped over something. When Finley had broken his arm after an awkward tumble, Harry hadn't reprimanded his small friends. After all his little pseudo snakes, spiders, and worms hadn't _intended_ to break Finley's arm, it was just bad luck. Or so he told himself.

* * *

Aunt Petunia liked to have her home perfectly organised, every single aspect of each room carefully designed to project an aura of a normal upper-middle class family. A façade to hide the existence of their delinquent nephew, and to make people comfortable and think that the Dursley's were a well-adjusted, friendly, and normal family that did not keep a small child locked in a cupboard. Harry, of course, knew that the Dursley's were not normal. Every one of his instincts screamed at him that what he was experiencing was not right. After all, they treated Dudley completely differently, lavishing the boy in gifts and praise, twisting his flaws into virtues to be proud of. Where Harry was worked like a slave, Dudley was treated like a prince and never once had done a single chore or suffered true hardship. Not getting to eat ice-cream for breakfast was not a hardship in Harry's mind.

By the time Harry was done with his daily clean-up after dinner, he was exhausted and tired from the long day. All day he worked on the laundry list of housework set by Aunt Petunia who was incredibly imaginative, always coming up with some new and difficult mind-numbingly boring task to complete. While his physical body went through the motion of whatever he was doing, polishing silver or repainting doors, he would send out his Darkling's as far from the house as possible, each time a little bit further down the road and escalating the difficulty of each trip with progressively complicated instructions. As satisfying as it was when they achieved something new or broke a previously set record, it left him feeling a little drained and tired. The deep-seated feeling of satisfaction that bloomed in his chest made it worth it though.

Every night he was thankful for his companions, their gentle encouragement and motivation was invaluable to him, filling him with a heartfelt warmth that he often imagined was a lot like how Dudley felt whenever his parents praised him or showered him with love. The Darkling's were becoming like family to him, protecting him and guiding his learning and his skills. Undeterred by their inability to speak, they assisted him with all his lessons at school, reassuring his efforts to better learn to read and chasing away thoughts of worthlessness that so often creeped up on him on dark nights after a thorough berating from Uncle Vernon for some error, imagined or otherwise.

The Dursley's could try as hard as they liked to degrade him and ruin his life, but his will to succeed was growing with each day. He would be better than them, and he would not let them dictate his future. With the Darkling's by his side, nothing was impossible.

* * *

As was common occurrence approaching Christmas, The Dursley's went to attend dinner parties with friends and work associates, leaving him in the hands of his babysitter Mrs. Figg. His Uncle didn't trust Harry not to burn down the house or blow it up, and Harry supposed that his Uncle was probably being fairly reasonable because the idea of setting the house on fire was one that passed through his mind on a regular basis.

Uncle Vernon had dropped him off at Mrs. Figgs in the late afternoon, with gruff order of "Behave!" before stomping back to his car in his ill-fitting suit. Aunt Petunia had spent the whole afternoon trying the squeeze Dudley into a suit matching the one Vernon wore, and the boy was now sitting uncomfortably in the back seat of the car. He had whined and thrown a tantrum, not wanting to go to another dinner party, but Aunt Petunia had put her foot down and stood for none of the usual dramatics, shocking Dudley into stunned compliance. His demands were _never_ ignored. The result was a red-faced Dudley stuffed in a tight suit looking uncannily similar to an overstuffed sausage. Harry made sure to send Dudley a smile and a mocking wave as the car drove away down the rapidly darkening street.

"Come on in Harry, would you like some dinner and a cup of tea?" Mrs. Figg asked kindly. She was an older woman who smelled of cabbages, as did the the rest of her house. She also had a _lot_ of cats. Mrs. Figg was dressed in a warm knitted sweater, long knitted skirt, and dark woollen knitted stockings. Harry thought that she had probably knitted the entire outfit herself, but she had chosen a rather unflattering light brown yarn which, as a result of having so many cats, was interspersed with clumps of cat hair. Her grey hair was tied back in a sloppy bun, and she wore large horn-rimmed glasses. She was the quintessential kindly old cat lady, and Harry couldn't help but have a small measure of fondness toward her.

"Yes, I'd like that v-very much." Harry mumbled quietly in reply with only the smallest of stutters. He was always careful with his words around adults. All he had to do was have one little slip up, and it would get mentioned offhandedly to Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia, and he'd be in deep trouble. He made it a rule to not talk about how he was treated by his relatives, and definitely not about anything _freakish_. The anxiety made him nervous around people that weren't his relatives, and gave the impression that he was very shy. He wondered how his teachers reconciled his shy behaviour with his tendency for being a "trouble making delinquent" according to his Uncle. Maybe he just looked guilty or shifty to them. There was no other explanation that he could think of.

Stepping into the warm house, Harry followed Mrs. Figg to her small kitchen. The creamy room was cosy and worn, a place that felt lived-in with its slight clutter and aged appliances. Mrs. Figg was stirring something in a large pot on her stove, a strong smell of cabbage emanating from the pot and infusing the air.

"Would you be a dear, Harry, and slice some bread, please?" She asked pleasantly, glancing at him only briefly. He didn't reply, moving to complete the request. Having been babysat enough times in the last few years he was comfortable in Mrs. Figgs home and helped her with serving dinner almost every time he came over.

Finding a loaf of rye bread, he cut four slices and pulled out a plate from a cupboard below the counter. He carried it to the small dining table next to kitchen and placed in the middle, sitting down and waiting for Mrs. Figg to give him something else to do. He watched as she ladled some soup into two bowls and brought one over to Harry, where she placed it in front of him, the spoon clinking as it shifted against the edge of the bowl. She placed the other bowl at her own place at the table, manoeuvring herself into the peachy upholstered dining chair.

Harry politely waited for Mrs. Figg to begin her meal, and dug in with gusto, rarely having the opportunity to eat a meal that was actually hot and not just lukewarm. The soup was something that the Dursley's would never eat, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. It was a foreign dish, he could smell and taste the obvious sauerkraut, and went on to identify potatoes, carrots, mushrooms, and bacon, but other shapes remained a mystery to him. They ate their meal in comfortable silence, and Harry mopped up the remains if soup in his bowl with his left-over bread, leaving him pleasantly full and a little sleepy.

Mrs. Figg smiled at him and gathered the dishes for hand washing in the sink.

"D-do you need help? W-with the dishes?" He asked, not wanting to seem rude or ungrateful as the Dursley's frequently told him he was.

"Don't you worry deary, why don't you go sit and watch some television for a bit?" Mrs. Figg offered kindly, rolling up her sleeves and turning the tap on.

Harry nodded his reply and slipped away into the living room where the television was turned on, tuned to a news channel. He sat himself gingerly on the edge of the sofa and reached for the remote which was obscured by a large garish orange knitting project that overflowed on the dark and battered coffee table. Flicking through the channels he found a movie that looked vaguely interesting and turned the volume up to audible levels.

His presence in the room did not go unnoticed by its regular tenants, several large and very fluffy cats who's eyes gleamed with intelligence. As they regarded Harry from afar, his Darkling's became curious, emerging from where they were safely ensconced and tucked away in his clothing and hair. He was immediately distracted from the film on tv, watching with rapt attention to see how the Darkling's would react to the clowder of cats. The cats, unlike humans, were aware of the Darklings's, and followed their movements unblinkingly. A grey cat with short thick fur and bright blue eyes was staring at the inky blobs, predatory intent clear in its eyes. Its body shifted into a crouch readying for a pounce, pupils dilating and whiskers twitching in anticipation.

As the Darkling's flittered and wriggled, it leapt forward! The swarm squealed and screamed at the sudden attack, and Harry flinched, heart in his throat fearing the worst. The swarm calmed and cleared, returning him to his senses. The grey cat was rolling on the floor, batting at the Darkling's with its paws. The Darkling's were unharmed and entertaining themselves by teasing the cat with their quick movements and fluid escapes.

The mischievous joy was infectious, and the Darkling's spread themselves around the room to investigate the rest of the feline sentries. The younger more playful cats were engaged in games of cat and mouse with some of the Darkling's enjoying the thrill of riding the animals as if they were mounts. The lazier Darkling's gravitated to the older sleepier cats, where they burrowed into soft fur or received a rough grooming from sand-papery tongues.

Happiness and innocent joy filtered through the bond to Harry and he relaxed into the couch, closing his eyes to concentrate on the feelings he so rarely experienced first-hand. He'd describe it as bitter-sweet, the everlasting tendrils of hatred for the Dursley's that lurked in the corners of his mind tainting the experience, but he resolutely smothered them.

Sinking into the soft pillows, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to fully bask in the bliss suffusing the mental bond. The sounds of Mrs. Figg washing the dishes and in the kitchen faded, the conversation between the characters in the movie became a indistinguishable buzz, and Harry slipped into a light doze, pleasantly floating in his mindscape.

He was awoken when Mrs. Figg joined him in the living room with a tray of tea and biscuits. The sky outside was pitch black, and Harry looked sleepily to an old grandfather-clock to find that over an hour had passed since he had first sat down.

Mrs. Figg bent over and used the tray to push her unfinished knitting project to the side. When the tray was firmly on the table, she gathered up the orange monstrosity, a large blanket based on its sheer size, and dumped it into a nearby armchair.

"Would you like that cup of tea now, deary?" she asked him as she sat down beside him.

Harry nodded and replied, "Yes please, Mrs. Figg."

"Sugar?" She asked, gripping a cube of white sugar in a pair of small tongs.

"Just one, th-thank you." Harry replied, a little flustered by the kind attention he was receiving. Mrs. Figg didn't appear to notice, and dropped the sugar cube into a porcelain tea cup decorated with delicate pink florals and dainty bright green vines. She added two cubes of sugar to her own cup, and poured tea from a matching teapot.

"Milk too?" she asked. Harry nodded and watched as she added a splash of milk to each teacup. He scooted forward to reach for his drink, and cautiously lifted the teacup, treating it as if were delicately spun glass. If he dropped it by accident, he'd surely end up in hot water with Mrs. Figg and she'd never agree to babysit him ever again.

He didn't say anything when he scalded his tongue on the hot tea, and abashedly blew on the liquid to cool it down to a reasonable temperature.

"Biscuit, dear?" Mrs. Figg inquired. Harry nodded and leaned forward to snatch a biscuit from the offered tray. He ducked his head and blushed at the sweet smile Mrs. Figg bestowed upon him. Nibbling on the biscuit as he waited for his tea to cool, the two of them settled in for an evening of television.

"My, they're quite energetic tonight, aren't they?" Mrs. Figg commented, interrupting the silence. She was watching her cats and appeared confused but humoured by their antics. Harry realised that the cats probably did look a bit silly pouncing on what would be invisible prey to anyone except himself. The Darkling's were still thoroughly enjoying themselves, good-naturedly taunting the felines or making themselves at home in their fluffy coats.

He didn't reply to her observation, and Mrs. Figg idly flicked between television channels as she sipped her tea. Eventually she settled on a cheesy and overdone tv game-show where she deliberated over the answers for trivia questions and grumbled about ignorant contestants.

Harry didn't find trivia especially interesting, and concentrated on slipping a few biscuits discreetly into his pockets. The Dursley's frequently punished him by withholding meals, sometimes leaving him for days at a time with barely anything to eat. Opportunities to sneak long-lasting foods like biscuits were few and far between, so he boldly took the initiative to smuggle a handful back to his cupboard.

After finishing his tea and munching on two biscuits, Harry found himself returning to his light doze, savouring the cosy atmosphere and the positivity flooding them mental connection with his demonic fairies.

The second time he was woken up, it was to Mrs. Figg gently patting his shoulder and calling his name softly.

"Your Aunt and Uncle will be arriving to pick you up soon, dear. I'll pack you some Christmas cake to take back with you." She said to him. Harry didn't have time to formulate his reply before she retreated to the kitchen. Preparing himself to leave, he gave the mental bond to his Darkling's a tug, sending them a request to return to him. They had ultimately worn out both themselves and the cats, and were now cosied up and sharing warmth with the fluffy beasts. Hearing his call, they leisurely stretched, oozing and trickling back to him to return to their favourite places on his person.

Mrs. Figg stepped back into the living room oblivious to the Darkling's that were crawling and floating around Harry. She was holding a clear Tupperware box with a large chunk of home-made Christmas fruitcake inside. She handed the box to Harry and moved to sit in her plush armchair, gathering the knitting into her arms with the intention of squeezing in a few more rows while they waited for the Dursley's.

Harry held onto the box, and disinterestedly watched the muted television which was set to a shopping channel. A gaudily dressed woman was showing off a ludicrously expensive ring while her sleazy male counterpart gesticulated wildly with a fake grin stretched across his orange tanned face.

When the Dursley's arrived ten minutes later, Harry clutched the Tupperware box silently lamenting the fact that he probably wouldn't end up having any of the cake. He was ushered into the car hastily, the Dursley's appearing to be very satisfied with their evening. Dudley was snoring in the back seat, drooling onto his chin and suit.

Upon returning home, Petunia snatched the Tupperware box from Harry, and he slipped into his cupboard without prompting, not wanting to draw the attention of the Dursley's who were content to ignore him.

* * *

 **A/N**

Next chapter will be Harry's first Darkling Christmas, and then (finally) we'll get to the Hogwarts stage.

Please share your thoughts and critiques 😊

Minor edits 14-11-17


	6. Chapter 6: Inferno

**A/N:**

Christmas chapter! I know Chrissy is still a little bit away in RL, but this was just the last little bit I wanted to do before we move toward Hogwarts territory.

Replying to **Guest** review _"Are_ _the Darklings the physical manifestations of his magic?"_ , the answer is NO. The Darkling's are a separate entity bonded to Harry.

Either ways, onwards!

* * *

When Christmas arrived the house was decorated ostentatiously with tinsel, angel figurines, Christmas cards, and festive tablecloths and linens. A plastic tree was in the corner of the living room, adorned neatly with tinsel, fairy lights, and baubles. Aunt Petunia was meticulous about decorations, and had spent several hours directing Harry and forcing him to correct and adjust every single branch and trinket until it was absolutely perfect. By the time he was finished with the decorations his arms were sore and aching from holding up items and he was suppressing his annoyance at Petunia's high pitched grating voice.

Afterwards, he'd helped his Aunt with wrapping Dudley's presents of which there were over 20. His reward for his assistance were several nasty paper-cuts thanks to the sharp edges of the shiny thin wrapping paper. Aunt Petunia's constant tutting and reprimands were driving him slowly insane. The gifts were all stacked under the tree for opening on Christmas day, and the unpleasant task of lugging the boxes downstairs and arranging them perfectly had unsurprisingly fallen on him and his aching arms.

None of the presents were marked as being from Santa Clause or Saint Nicholas. Instead they were all signed as being from Mum or Dad, because someone as dodgy as Santa Clause didn't visit the Dursley household. Jolly fat men with white beards that flew through the sky in a sleigh pulled by supernatural reindeer and then came down chimneys to leave presents for children, were obviously nothing but a silly myth. _Magical_ things like that were a forbidden topic in the _normal_ and _ordinary_ Dursley household. Ignoring the fact that children believing in Santa Clause was a perfectly normal thing. The Dursley's seemed to have the idea that anything remotely impossible or improbable would somehow encourage Harry's freakishness. This had been proven true by the Halloween stunt that Dudley had pulled, so Harry, in a twisted way, sort of understood where his relatives were coming from.

Harry knew that Santa was a myth designed to keep children in-line and behaved, which probably explained why Dudley was a such a brat. There was no all-knowing mythological man judging whether he was worthy to receive gifts, so Dudley could keep on being as awful as he wanted without consequence. If Santa, by some miracle, was actually real, then Harry was quite certain that Dudley was far too a nasty a boy to receive a single present from the man, even a sack of coal would be too kind.

On the other hand, despite all the work that was being heaped on him, Harry was lucky that this year Aunt Marge was busy with one of her dogs that had fallen ill, thankfully resulting in her being unable to visit. Aunt Marge was a female version of Uncle Vernon with an impressive moustache of her own. She was obscenely obese with a beefy stature, missing a neck, had beady eyes deep set in a purple face, and an atrociously loud and obnoxious personality. She lived north in Haughton, a small village in the county of Staffordshire where she bred bulldogs.

Harry was glad that one of her wretched dogs had gotten sick. Uncle Vernon had invited her for Christmas this year, and having her vicious dog Ripper tear him to pieces was considered family-friendly entertainment. She often bought Dudley ridiculously expensive gifts, spoiling him even more rotten than Vernon and Petunia did. Naturally, she utterly loathed Harry and took great pleasure cutting him down verbally, mournfully reminiscing on the old days when misbehaving delinquents were brutally caned by strict headmasters

and disciplined in a similar manner at home.

On the day of Christmas Eve Harry was put to work, helping to prepare an extravagant dinner for Christmas day. The sheer amount of food that needed to be made for the special day meant that a significant portion had to be prepared the day before and then refrigerated or frozen until the next day. Many desserts were well suited to this approach, Christmas pudding, mince pies, and biscuits were baked well in advance. Dudley spent most of the day sampling the yields and increasing Harry's workload. Sauces and gravies were also prepared ahead of time, stored in the fridge for reheating on the stove tomorrow. He made a red cabbage salad, the flavour enhanced by the overnight marinating. It was part of the Christmas spread, and Harry knew that he'd end up having a lot of vegetables to eat during Christmas, the Dursley's preferring to gorge themselves on roast turkey with cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes with gravy.

Surprisingly, the Dursley's were not immune to the Christmas spirit, the happy and warm atmosphere of the holiday chipping marginally at their hardened hearts. He was worked like a dog, sure, but was treated with a touch more tolerance the usual. Due to the rare occasion, most years Harry was allowed to have a little of each dish from the Christmas spread, and was even given a small serving of Christmas pudding with butterscotch sauce. On normal days, Harry didn't get to sample most of the food he cooked for the Dursleys. He was an excellent cook, in his own opinion, and he only received complaints when something was burnt.

Sneaking more food than they offered, however, was not recommended. Last year when he had attempted to take more than he had been given it had not ended well. Uncle Vernon didn't shout or scream at him, it had been a quiet anger which was, in some ways, far more terrifying than his usual yelling. Harry had been grabbed roughly by his Uncle and dragged to his cupboard in silence, where he had remained for two days with only one bathroom break each day.

This year Harry was determined to avoid trouble. He'd been cooking and cleaning flawlessly over the past few days, keeping a tight rein on the Darkling's to prevent any mischief. They grumbled a little at the restrictions, but he rewarded them by giving them his full attention in the cupboard late at night. He was the perfect obedient little servant the Dursley's wanted, though it rankled and made him feel ashamed to be so weak and subservient. With every order and demand barked at him, his anger and contempt festered inside of him, a putrid sore in the centre of his being leaking noxious pus into his mind and soul.

He pushed the toxic feelings down, the abscess growing a little more with each day that passed.

* * *

As Christmas day dawned, the household was up bright early courtesy of Dudley's excitement for presents. Harry was relegated to serving boy, preparing tea, coffee, and hot chocolate for the family, serving a light breakfast of semi-sweet pastries to tide them over until the Christmas feast beginning mid-afternoon.

Harry sat on the floor at the edge of the living room, watching Dudley rip into his presents with glee as his doting parents watched on. They were all at ease and relaxed, lounging in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. Dudley showed no appreciation for the effort that had been put into wrapping each gift, tearing into the paper like a wild animal. His eyes were filled with delight as each new item was revealed to him. Some items were obvious, like the large bicycle which was impossible to disguise (a replacement for Dudley's last bike which he had crashed and now refused to ride even though Vernon had fixed the misaligned wheel). Other presents included stacks of cd's (that would probably never be listened to), computer games, a shiny new watch, a remote-control car, a new computer, and so it kept going in a blur.

As soon as one thing was unwrapped and admired, it was thrown aside in preparation for the next gift. Harry was disgusted by the casual disregard Dudley had for the multiple gifts, many of which he suspected were quite expensive. His Aunt and Uncle always complained that he was burden on them and the he should be grateful for all that he received from them. Harry thought it was ridiculous that he was considered such a burden, when surely all of Dudley's presents for Christmas were worth several years of his own meagre existence.

Harry's ill-tempered musings were interrupted by Dudley's wailing. Aunt Petunia was immediately at her blubbering son's side.

"Oh what's wrong baby? Mummy will fix it, tell mummy what's wrong, sweetums." She pleaded with the boy.

Fat tears were rolling down Dudley's red and blotchy face, entire countenance screwed up tightly as if afflicted by some terrible physical pain.

"My game!" he wailed out, a tone so high pitched it threatened to burst Harry's eardrums. "I-i-it's the wrong, the wrong e-e-edition!" he eventually managed to splutter through his sobs.

Harry rolled his eyes, Dudley managed to make a drama out of something. Every. Single. Year. Last year the sixteen packs of Football Cards he'd gotten hadn't had his favourite player, and the year before that his Optimus Prime model was too small. Every year something was not good enough.

"That's my boy!" cried out Uncle Vernon jovially, "Always knows what he wants, clever tyke."

' _Trust Uncle Vernon to find something good about Dudley's stupid tantrum.'_ thought Harry.

"Don't you worry Duddykins, Mummy will take you to the shops and get you the right one." Aunt Petunia said, trying to placate her distressed son.

Dudley, the spoilt brat, didn't think that was good enough.

"You don't care about me!" Dudley bemoaned, "you never listen to me!". It was incredibly stupid, because the Dursley's did care about Dudley, very much, and always went to great lengths to get him exactly what he wanted. Unfortunately, they weren't very knowledgeable about things like video-games, and Harry could recognise Dudley's hysterics for what they really were. A guilt trip. Dudley was the master of guilt trips, and when an opportunity like this one presented itself he would do anything to milk it for all it was worth. He was doing a rather admirable job, Harry had to concede, Aunt Petunia had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

"Mummy loves you very much, sweetums! How about I get you anything you want, hmm? We'll go take this game back to the shop and find the right one, and then you can choose a whole _two_ other games too. Won't that be nice, two new games?" Aunt Petunia was practically pleading with Dudley, enticing him with the prospect of even more presents.

Dudley's eyes lit up in victory, "Really, mummy? You're the best!" he exclaimed, thrilled with the success of his outburst at extorting more presents and giving his mum a grateful hug. Uncle Vernon chuckled, and Petunia looked relieved at having averting what she perceived to be a disaster. Both were completely, and perhaps even intentionally, oblivious to Dudley's manipulation.

When Harry didn't end up with a single gift from under the tree, he told himself that it wasn't upsetting at all. He never got anything anyway, not for his birthday and not for Christmas, so why would it bother him this year? Still, he felt the anger in his mind flare briefly, and he struggled to smother it. Concentrating on his emotions, he pushed down the fire, trying to choke or smother it. In the end, he envisioned trapping his anger in a tiny black box, the flames stubbornly refusing to be dowsed.

Christmas day progressed at a snail's pace. Harry was sequestered in the kitchen where cooked and supervised the remaining dishes for the feast that was scheduled later in the afternoon. Aunt Petunia would regularly come in to check on his progress, and take up the any task that she thought needed her particular brand of fussiness.

By noon Harry was taking quick breaks to take deep breaths and try to calm himself down. Every little ounce of happiness and laughter that he could hear from the living room annoyed the hell out of him. When Aunt Petunia came into the kitchen, her snooty critiques and haughty sniffs made his teeth grind in aggravation.

Sensing the deterioration of his already poor disposition, the Darkling's surrounding him became restless, crawling over him and flitting around him in wild, jerky movements, feeding on his negative emotions and becoming frenzied whenever his anger intensified to near unbearable levels.

* * *

By the time Christmas dinner was being served, Harry was tense and in a visibly bad mood. He received sharp glares from his Aunt and Uncle, but they had no effect on him, and they changed tactics, choosing instead to ignore him as much as possible. He spent the rest of Christmas dinner gripping his cutlery in white knuckled hands, gritting his teeth and biting his tongue to avoid saying something inflammatory about the repulsive pig-like noises Vernon and Dudley were making. The sounds were insufferable, slurping and chewing with their mouths open like some sort of slack-jawed mouth breathers. It was the least enjoyable Christmas dinner he had ever sat through, and by the time it was over, Harry was seriously thinking that spending the rest of his life in prison for murdering the Dursley's wouldn't be so bad.

The mess left on the table after the drawn-out meal was exactly as Harry expected considering the atrocious (lack of) table manners he had just experienced. Half-chewed food was sprayed all over the table, the tablecloth unsalvageable with all the stains covering it. After enjoying the food that he had so "lovingly" prepared, sarcasm intended, he now had to clean up the revolting mess left by the animals that were his uncle and cousin.

He cleared the table and turned his focus to the stacks of dirty dishes piling up in the sink. He decided to start with everything that was dishwasher safe, and rinsed everything so it was free of food scraps, organising them in the rack carefully so as to maximise the space available. The dishes he had left over were large pots and pans, as well as a selection of cutlery, some crystal wine glasses, and Aunt Petunia's hideous vintage pink floral plates with gold trimming. The vintage plates could absolutely _never_ go in the dishwasher. Aunt Petunia would have his head if the gold trim was destroyed by the washer.

The carefree laughter that floated into the living room caused Harry to treat he kitchenware with a harshness he wouldn't have used if he was in the right state of mind. He could feel a tight pressure building up in his chest, forcing his breath to come in short, sharp bursts.

The anger that he stuffed into the little black box was burning fiercely through its container, consuming it whole.

Like a grassfire, the flames rushed through his body with frightening speed, the inferno roaring in his ears and the intense flames blinding him. Having overwhelmed Harry entirely, the blaze kept moving, needing more fuel to maintain its terrifying ferocity. Having burned through Harry in mere seconds the pressure of the inferno grew inside of him with nowhere to go. The only way was out.

Harry was startled out his scorching haze as the flames burst free from his body, sending a gargantuan shock wave through the entire room. Cupboards and windows rattled, and all the plates in the drying rack smashed into thousands of pieces. The _vintage , gold trimmed, priceless_ plates. In pieces.

The house was dead silent.

Pure, unbridled panic hit him like a sledgehammer to gut. He was going to be _murdered_. Horrifically and painfully. His body would never be found.

"BOY!" Vernon roared, but the sound was faint and far away to Harry, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Harry could only stand there in shock as thumping was heard from the living room, Vernon was probably trying to lift his huge weight up from the couch as quickly as possible.

' _Oh god, oh god, oh god. This needs to disappear._ _ **I**_ _need to disappear, oh my god I'm gonna die.'_

Harry's mental thoughts must have been broadcasting loud and clear because in a flash the agitated Darkling's had acted. The swarm descended on the mess of smashed plates, and Harry watched on stunned and paralysed. Time seemed to pass in slow motion. He watched the Darkling's knit the plates back to perfect condition. There was a strong tugging on their connection, as if they were drawing on some invisible spool of thread inside of him, using it to sew and bind the shards together. As each plate was formed anew, there were no visible signs of breakage. Not a single crack or flaw was visible eye. Like nothing had happened at all.

At the very last moment a plate was carried by Spiderlegs (so named because they had spindly spider-like legs. Yes, Harry was aware he was being terribly original with his naming scheme) back onto the drying rack. Uncle Vernon stormed in, his face purple and enraged, directed at Harry. The malicious intent coming from his Uncle was so palpable that he broke out in a fear induced cold sweat. Aunt Petunia and Dudley were peeking into the kitchen from the hallway, looking shaken by Vernon's rage.

"What in the bloody hell was the god-forsaken noise, boy?" barked Uncle Vernon angrily, spittle flying from his mouth and hitting Harry in the face.

"I-I-I d-don't kn-kn-ow, U-Uncle." Harry whispered out, stuttering so severely it was almost incomprehensible.

Vernon grabbed the collar of Harry's shirt with a meaty fist "Don't lie to me, boy!" he shouted into Harry's face, dousing him in more spit.

The pit of anger in Harry had burned out, exhausting its fuel and leaving nothing but an empty void in his chest.

Now that void was filling with icy cold water, submerging him in terror so pure it was like drowning beneath a frozen lake, futilely banging on the surface.

"P-p-p-please. I-I-I-I d-don –" Harry tried to explain himself, but the his voice was struggling to escape him, trapped beneath the ice in his chest. He didn't get to finish his pointless explanation anyway.

"SHUT UP!" Vernon shouted, gripping Harry by the hair and wrenching him to the back door. Harry was shoved out onto the cold patio forcefully, sending an excruciating jolt through his left wrist when he landed having used it to shield his head instinctively as he fell.

"Stay out!" Vernon whispered furiously slamming the door shut violently. Harry whimpered at the pain in his wrist, and his despair was punctuated by the sound of a click. The back door had been locked.

Injured and traumatised, Harry curled up in the spot, shivering in the cold of the winter night.

The Darkling's crooned mournfully, settling over him like a warm blanket, trying to comfort their injured master. Harry was thankful for their presence, and for their help. As the fear of his Uncle subsided, he could only think at the horrors that would have faced him had Vernon seen all the _precious vintage_ plates in smithereens.

* * *

The lights in the Dursley household eventually went out many hours later, the only lights left on were the fairy lights on the Christmas tree. Harry was tempted to wait another hour, and then risk sneaking into the house, maybe with the help of his little ink army. In the end the fear at being caught won out over his desperation to escape the night-time chill.

The Darkling's were wrapped close around him, but they did not have everlasting body heat, and were noticeably more sluggish in their movements. The night had rapidly cooled to below zero temperatures, and from experience, Harry knew he would not be let into house again until tomorrow morning. If he didn't freeze to death first.

He wondered if the Dursley's would even feel guilty if they found his dead body the next morning.

Deciding that staying out on the cold patio was a direct path to death, Harry painfully lifted himself off the ground, avoiding jostling his left wrist which was sore and swollen. He desperately hoped it wasn't broken.

There was a very light dusting of snow over the ground. Surrey wasn't known for heavy snowfall, and even such a small amount would be a source of fun for the neighbourhood children come morning.

Feet crunching over the snow, Harry made his way to the garden shed. It didn't have a heater or any blankets, but it would shield him from the cold wind. Releasing the latch, he shuffled into the cramped and cluttered shed. Softly closing the door behind him, he assessed his dark surroundings, a difficult undertaking with no light. The moon was a thin sliver in the sky, barely visible and worthless as a source of light on an overcast night such as this. The Darkling's had much better night vision than he did, so he prodded and poked the connection. It was draining to do so, but he got a better impression of the room from their perspective.

Moving forward with his right arm out in front of him, Harry stumbled forward, accidentally hitting his shin on an empty pot that had been right in front of him. It tipped over noisily. He stilled and strained his ears, turning his head to look through the small window on the shed door. For the next few minutes he stood completely still and waited to see if the lights in the house would switch on. They didn't.

Breathing a sound of relief and feeling foolish about his paranoia, he bent down to move the pot to the side and out of the way. The dark room was giving him flashbacks to the last time he was in a shed at night-time, but there were no satanic circles or dead foxes in sight, something that made him calmer despite how unlikely it would have been to find those things in _this_ shed in the first place.

Making his way _very_ slowly to the back of the shed, Harry avoided any additional confrontations with misplaced pots. At the very back was a work bench, and he kneeled down to crawl beneath the bench. There were large bags of soil and fertiliser flat on the ground. Not wanting to lay on top of them, he gripped one of the bags with his uninjured right hand to drag it to side and stack it on top of another bag. Catching onto his plan, the Darkling's unfurled themselves from around him to help with the effort. Hummingbird and other flying types attached themselves to the top of the bag while Spiderlegs squeezed underneath to lift it. Working in tandem, they made two stacks with three bags in each stack, leaving enough space for Harry to crawl in under the workbench.

It wasn't very clean, and it smelt awful, but the enclosed space was comforting, and Harry felt safe. Uncle Vernon's huge size would never reach so far in the shed, not without the time-consuming task of removing all its contents.

"Wake me up in the morning?" he asked his Darkling's. They responded with a hum that sounded like agreeance, and Harry relaxed in his hidey-hole. The Darkling swarm wrapped around him, cocooning him in its protective folds. Gingerly caressing his wrist, he relaxed and let the oblivion of sleep take him into its depths.

* * *

Harry was woken up by a persistent tickling on his nose. As he groggily woke up, a fairy Darkling was the first thing to appear in his vision. Trying to focus on the creature made his eyes cross, it was perched happily on his nose wriggling around and waving at him. The little humanoid was one that he had named Moth, based on its large wings that folded and fluttered like those a moth. The inky blankness of the wings also seemed to be translucent, with various patterns flowing and shifting within the wings. Tiny antennas extended from its face, and its glowing eyes were bulbous and had the appearance of a multi-faceted jewel. She was rather lovely, or at least Harry got the impression it was 'she', there wasn't anything to indicate that individual Darkling's had a gender, but this one was sending him an impression that it was a female. Strange. Harry didn't know how he knew, he just did. Another perk of the bond.

Shaking his head, he yawned and crawled out from under the workbench. He jerked his left hand abruptly up to his chest. He had just used it crawl out from under the table, and it hadn't even hurt! Dubiously, he inspected his arm, looking for evidence of swelling or injury. It was flawless, nothing except for his honey sun-kissed skin.

Upon exiting the shed he was hit with the cold and crisp air, the shining winter sun rising lazily in the east, warming the earth with its gentle rays. He brushed himself off as best possible, and scrubbed his filthy hands under the garden tap. When he was satisfied that he wouldn't get any cleaner, he made his way warily to the patio where he sat down by the doors and waited to be let back in.

Harry shivered, even with shelter and the Darkling's, the night had been freezing. He'd gotten a good look at his reflection in the window of the shed door, and he looked pale and maybe even a little blue. It was miracle he wasn't dead, being locked out all night in the middle of winter.

A gust of cold wind made his body shiver violently. Aunt Petunia was always up early, and Harry would do anything for her to appear and let him that very moment.

His wish for her to appear came true twenty minutes later. It had felt like an eternity, but the sound of the door clicking open was heaven to his ears. Aunt Petunia had her usual terse expression, mouth pursed tightly as if she had just swallowed a lemon. Disapproval and disdain shone in her eyes. Still, she opened the door wider and beckoned him inside silently.

He didn't waste time, scrambling in as fast as possible. The house was a perfect toasty temperature thanks to the gas heater that ran most of the day and all of the night.

"Go take a shower, you're filthy. You have ten minutes." Aunt Petunia told him shortly. Harry looked up at her, gob-smacked. A whole _ten_ minutes, normally he got five. Her scornful sniff jerked him back into reality, and he rushed to cupboard for some clean clothing. Bounding up the stairs Harry ran to the bathroom, intent on taking a scalding hot shower.

Dudley and Vernon would be sleeping in today, so Harry wasn't too worried if he went a little overtime, although Aunt Petunia would probably be annoyed.

Turning the shower on, Harry stripped down in record speed and thrust his arm under the spray to check the temperature. When the water started to grow warm, he jumped in and sighed deeply, the sensation of hot water cascading over him could only be described as wholly blissful.

Feeling started to come back to his frozen limbs, and he reached for his soap and shampoo, both reluctantly purchased from a clearance shelf. The Darkling's were just as elated as he was to be under the hot spray. Some of them looked to be melting all over him, but all-in-all they seemed to be having a splendid time with the soap, making bubbles, sliding around, and letting the water splash over them.

The first time in the shower with the Darkling's had been weird and he had tried to send them away, but now it was perfectly natural for him to have them there. They were hilarious and gave the best shampoo massages imaginable. His hair was getting a bit long, falling into his eyes and curling around his neck. He was loath to cut it when the Darkling's enjoyed the long strands so thoroughly. Especially in moments like these when they were working up a thick foam and styling it into a ridiculous Mohawk.

When he estimated that he was reaching the ten-minute mark, Harry wistfully shut off the water and dried off using his worn ratty towel. Dressing into his clean clothing, he centred himself and took deep breaths, conscious that the rest of the day was likely to be quite taxing. He subtly began to close the bond between himself and the Darkling's, their simple joy was infectious, and he needed to appear adequately subdued to Aunt Petunia. Closing his eyes, he focused on smoothing out his expression and let his smile fade. Hunching himself over, he made his way downstairs, trying to make himself look small. His behaviour after being let indoors could be excused as desperation to be back in the house, and now he had to appear as if he was appropriately subdued by the punishment that he had been given.

Shuffling downstairs with a manufactured air of dejection, he deposited his grimy clothes in the laundry room and hovered in the kitchen. Aunt Petunia's eye briefly flickered in his direction, but she didn't say anything. Since he was not being expressly forbidden from eating breakfast, Harry made himself two slices of toast and ate them with a very small amount of jam. Dudley and Vernon wouldn't be up until late morning, so he could take his time.

Now that he was calm, at an acceptable temperature, and having something to ease his hunger pangs, he had time to think about the whole disastrous experience in peace. _'One day,'_ he thought _'they'll pay and they'll be the ones freezing out in the cold.'  
_ With that dark line of thought something is his chest sparked; once more the flames of anger had ignited in his chest, burning hotter and brighter than ever before.

* * *

 **A/N:** Next chapter we start to hit on canon events, although I won't be copying down whole paragraphs from the books, just hitting on key points and events and adding the demon Darkling twist.

Next update will be delayed due to RL commitments.

Please fave and follow, review and leave comments to let me know what you think.

Ideas for pairings or plot elements you would like to see? I have a main plot outline but it's flexible and open to new ideas.

Have a good week everyone :)

Light edits 14-11-17


	7. Chapter 7: Threads and Owls

Chapter 7.

 **A/N:**

Thank you again for your faves, follows and reviews.

Please enjoy the next instalment and sorry for the long wait. I have been busy with RL commitments, I finished my studies, got a full-time job, and moved interstate. I have been settling into my new job, and it's my first time living away from home.

Some previous chapters. have had light edits done, a few typos fixed and some minor alterations for flow and/or clarity. Nothing that requires a re-read.

I have also been working on another fic which will be finished and posted in the coming months.

 **Story so far:**

Harry has tiny demon fairy minions which he has a strange bond with. Together they help and protect each other, especially against Dudley, and the chronic neglect of the Dursley's. Harry's bond with the small demons grows, and his anger at the Dursely's grows with each passing day.

* * *

The incident with the boa constrictor at the zoo resulted in the longest, but thankfully not the worst, punishment Harry had ever experienced. It had been hilarious to watch the Darkling's shove Dudley into the tank and he thought the memory of the event was worth the punishment. Dudley was now spending the summer avoiding him, something which Harry had no complaint against. All took was a knowing smirk, and his wobbling cousin would waddle nervously in the opposite direction. Still, his stomach panged with hunger, and his hands and feet were sore from the unrelenting and imaginative chores his Aunt and Uncle had thought up for him.

The whole drama had been precipitated by Harry's extreme discomfort in the busy zoo. While he was used to the crowds of students at school, he avoided the general noise and discomfort of large groups during break times. He knew all the best quiet spots and didn't like to have his silence invaded.

In the zoo there was no escape from the screaming children and their doting parents. Their glares at his ragged delinquent-like wardrobe dug into his back and raised the hairs at the nape of his neck. Dudley's bullying and general nastiness only increased his self-conscious anxiety. The noise and scrutiny suffocated him, bringing a loud buzz to his ears and dimming his vision to a blurry pinpoint.

He _really_ didn't like crowds, especially those with lots of adults. As his vision grew darker, the buzzing in his ears escalated and pulsed. When it finally reached its peak after lunch, a shockwave burst out from within him, shattering all the glass sheets in the reptile house, the sharp shards spraying outward at incredible speed. The glass didn't harm any of the creatures, despite the invisible shockwave that came from Harry, the glass had exploded in the direction of the crowd of, leaving the reptiles without a scratch or scale out of place.

The result was blessed silence. For a few seconds at least.

Pure chaos descended upon the room. Children cried covered in glass and cuts, their parents yelling as they rushed to their children, only to scream in terror as the collection of reptiles in the room bid a hasty escape. Snakes slithered out of their cages, small lizards hastily skittering across walls and leaping out of their enclosures.

The Darkling's revelled in the chaos, squealing in delight and ferrying the larger lizards out of their cages and down to the ground where they could make their break for freedom.

Harry's attention was drawn to Dudley and his Aunt and Uncle. Petunia's shrill voice and Vernon's roar were two very distinctive sounds. They were trying to help lift their son out of the boa constrictor enclosure. The clamouring crowd around him faded to a distant din, and he could do nothing but watch the drama unfold with an incredulous look on his face. It was as if everything had slowed down, and he could see it all crystal-clear clarity. Now that there was no longer any attention on him he felt invisible at the centre of the pure madness that had erupted around him.

He smiled and laughed (In hindsight, that had been a bad idea. He blamed his manic laughter on the Darkling's, which had been enjoying themselves quite spectacularly.)

Uncle Vernon saw.

* * *

In general, the last two years had been the best of his life. The same two years for another person would most likely be miserable, but for Harry anything more than complete and absolute misery is an improvement.

His anger did get the best of him a few times, but the Darkling's were irreplaceable and loyal friends. They were like an extension of his own body, an additional and far-reaching limb with a mind of its own. He could no longer tell where he ended and where they began, their thoughts flowed together seamlessly, feeding into each other and blurring at the edges. They were two halves of a whole.

The Darkling's would always be mischievous creatures, far more than Harry himself, and he allowed them to indulge in their wicked sense of humour on more than one occasion, although he always made sure that Uncle Vernon was nowhere nearby to try to pin on him.

Now it was well into the summer holidays, and as soon as they (along with his very long punishment courtesy of the Zoo Incident) were over Harry would finally be free from Dudley and his silly gang. Dudley was headed off to Uncle Vernon's old school, Smeltings, while Harry himself was headed to Stonewall High.

Smeltings was a boarding school practically on the other side of the country, which meant that Dudley would be _far_ away for a majority of the year – probably saving the Dursley's thousands of pounds in food expenses. Unfortunately Stonewall High was a day school, so Harry would still have to deal with his awful Aunt and Uncle every day after school. Not getting beaten up so often was a massive bonus, so it wasn't all bad.

This particular morning Dudley was playing with the Smelting stick that he had taken to toting around the house. He was being supremely unsubtle in his attempts to hit Harry with it, Uncle Vernon was quite encouraging of the activity. Harry was luckily able to get away from Dudley's swatting when Uncle Vernon issued the command for the mail to be brought over.

In the pile of bills and postcards was a letter addressed to him. Harry Potter, under the stairs, at number four Privet Drive. Well, that was creepily specific.

' _How curious'_ , he thought. A flash of coloured thread caught his attention, from the Darkling's perspective he could see that this letter was wrapped neatly in emerald thread, the same colour as the ink that his name was written in. It pulsed around the letter, one of its ends stretching out to an unknown destination. There was purpose in this thread, there was none of the normal wild tangling that he observed in the natural threads of the world. These threads were artificial, too structured to be accidental.

Concluding that this was something important and therefore should remain out of sight, he decided that for now it would be best to keep the strange letter a secret. Besides, even if it wasn't important, it has his name on it, and knowing Dudley and the Dursley's, it would be taken away in the blink of an eye.

The Darkling's reacted to his thought, and within seconds the entire envelope vanished, swallowed up by the swarm.

For a moment Harry was shocked. Had they just _eaten_ his letter? How could they? That letter was for him! It wasn't a snack! He grit his teeth as anger prickled along his skin, a harsh reprimand burning in his throat.

The Darkling's tittered at him, projecting reassurance toward him. Ah, they hadn't eaten it. He immediately deflated, feeling embarrassed. They were just keeping the letter it safe like he wanted.

He perked up as he realised this was a new discovery, a new ability! Never had they taken something into themselves to hide it. Could they hide larger objects? Where did the letter go? Did it shrink, or dissolve? Some experimentation was in order!

"Hurry up boy! What are you doing? Checking for letter bombs?" Shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen, chuckling at his tasteless joke.

Later they would test the boundaries of the ability, but now was not the time. He smoothed his face and adopted a bored expression, expertly locking away the anticipation bubbling in his tummy. He carried the post-cards and bills to the kitchen, ready and resigned to another day of chores.

* * *

Harry finally had the opportunity to open the letter late in the evening. The dishes had all been washed, dried, and put away, and the Dursley's were watching television in the living room. They would not call on him again for the rest of the night.

Not wanting the Dursley's to notice the light on, the Darkling's seeped into the cracks of the door and filled the gaps of the vent. Despite being invisible, the Darkling's could block light and cast shadows whenever they wished, and the ability grew stronger the more they practiced. At first, they had only managed to dim the light, but now they could block all but the brightest of lights.

The envelope that he held in his hands was thick and smooth. On the back was a wax seal, a crest pressed into it. The crest was incredibly detailed with four animals and tiny words on the ribbon below. The tiny words weren't in English.

Breaking the seal, Harry pulled out a thick wad of the paper-like material. The first sheet was a letter, addressed to him. The first letter he had ever gotten. Over the past few years his literacy skills had dramatically improved thanks to the patience and support of his Darkling's. Even when he was frustrated and angry at his own failures, not for a second did they leave his side or give up on him. For that he was thankful, and it meant that he could properly read his letter, even if he found long words tricky sometimes.

He mouthed the words as he read. When he got to the end his brain stopped. Ground to halt and refused to go.

He blinked.

What?

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?

Was this a serious letter? This had to be a prank. A school named _Hogwarts_ , how ridiculous was that? He had no problem in believing in magic, that wasn't the issue. He spoke to snakes and was surrounded by obviously magical fairy-thingies. But _HOG. WARTS._ Seriously? The Headmaster has the title of _Supreme Mugwump._ What does that even mean?

He felt a little uneasy now, he had a vague feeling that this Witchcraft and Wizardry thing was going to be utterly mad. The gleeful excitement of the Darkling's only cemented his premonition.

Somewhat nervously, he shuffled the papers to look at the attached materials. The equipment and materials lists didn't exactly inspire confidence. Robes and wands, cauldrons and books, and first-years are not allowed _broomsticks._

Harry could feel a head-ache coming on. He'd spent his whole life being neglected by the Dursley's and hunted by Dudley's gang, how was he going to handle navigating a place that he knew nothing about?

Besides, the Dursley's would never let him go anyway. He had no money of his own, and their obsessive hatred of anything abnormal guaranteed their unwillingness to even entertain the thought.

Pulling out some lined paper and a pen, Harry wasn't sure how to formulate his reply. Accept the invitation school or reject it? A large part of him desperately wanted to go, to get away from the Dursley's, to find out more about magic and investigate the origins of his Darkling's. But the more rational and pragmatic part of brain screamed 'NO', these witches and wizards came across as totally insane, and not to mention totally unbothered by the fact that he lived in a cupboard. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would have a fit if he accepted, would they treat him even worse when he announced it, or would they just kick him out entirely?

He worried at his lip in indecision. He didn't know what to write or how to write it. The Darkling's wrapped around him, soothing his anxiety.

 _Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall,_

That was the correct way to address his letter, wasn't it?

 _I'm sorry but I won't be able to go to Hogwarts. I think there has been a mistake, I am going to Stonewall High next year._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Harry Potter_

There. That was ok. Pretend it was all a mistake. Rejecting the invitation was upsetting and little disappointing, but he truly thought that it was for the best. A few more years with the Dursley's and he would be free. This Hogwarts thing would only rock the boat and make things worse. He didn't really _need_ to learn magic. He had the Darkling's by his side, he would be fine.

Folding his letter, he wasn't sure what to do with it. The Hogwarts letter had something about an Owl, but Harry didn't have one of those.

A bat-like Darkling fluttered and squeaked at him, then swooped down and settled itself upside down on a glowing green thread. The green thread that was wrapped around the letter and stretching out into the unknown.

His brow furrowed as he thought, an idea forming in his head. He didn't have an owl, but it was obvious that this thread was the key to sending his response. The Darkling's really were clever little things.

"I need an owl." He whispered to them quietly, holding his arm up in front of him.

A group of winged Darkling's gently flapped down and landed in his outstretched arm, a mixture of insect, bird, and mammal type creatures, some with humanoid features and others an amalgamation of features from several animals. The six of them huddled together and began squawk and hum. He wasn't sure why they had come down like this, he only needed one to deliver his message.

There was tugging feeling at the bond, it was hard to define, like the air in his chest was being funnelled into his head and sucked out through his brain. He'd long discovered that this was a sign that the Darkling's were about to do something seriously awesome, or seriously terrible depending on your perspective.

Slowly, their edges began to blur and their limbs began to drip and coagulate. With a slightly unpleasant squelch, the roiling liquid blackness resting on his arm began to coalesce, reshaping and reforming itself.

A wickedly sharp beak released a shriek of triumph, the pitch-black owl with glowing green eyes stretching out its wings and giving them an experimental swish.

"Oh." He gasped out. "That is so cool!" He whispered excitedly.

The owl preened itself smugly. With a mischievous glint in its eye, it snatched the folder letter from his other hand and took flight. Using the emerald green thread like a guide, it disappeared through the wall, a slight smoky residue trailing behind it and seeping into the cupboard wall.

The sucking feeling in his head intensified and Harry was struck with an intense dizziness. Manoeuvring himself into a cramped lying position in his cot, he closed his eyes and slipped into an exhausted slumber, headache pounding behind his eyes.

* * *

The next morning Harry felt woozy, like his head been roughly stuffed with cotton. His limbs were heavy, and he moved through his chores monotonously. If Aunt Petunia thought something was wrong, she didn't show it.

His exhaustion only began to ease later in the day while he was working in the garden. Even in the days heat he was soothed by the activity. There was wholesome satisfaction and feeling of peace that came with watching the shimmering threads of stems and leaves of plants. The glowing bundles throbbed and coiled around and down deep into the soil where they joined with the earth. It was only because of the Darkling's that he could see the lines of life that existed in every living thing. The pulsing and throbbing of the threads was the universal heartbeat of all life.

Near his head, the green thread connecting his letter and some distant location was still shimmering brightly, a pure straight line in all the tangled chaos of life. He looked out in the direction of the emerald strand. A black pinprick in the distance was barely visible. It grew closer and closer, closing on his location swiftly.

The growing black splotch was the Darkling Owl, and it dove down at him, coming straight at him with terrifying speed. Harry raised in arms in surprise, instinctively protecting himself against the impact that was sure to come.

The impact never came. The Darkling Owl pulled up at the very last moment, bursting into six smaller Darkling's. They gently floated down toward him, tired chirps and squeak, slinking in to his hair and into his clothes to rest. They were projecting immense relief and happiness at having finally returned to him. Blurry memories flickered through his mind, soaring over expansive green landscapes, a castle tower, a flash of a stern looking woman with glasses.

His letter had been received.

* * *

Following his response to the Hogwarts letter, Harry considered the whole matter closed and pushed it to the back of his mind. No point in dwelling on what could have been.

He was in the kitchen preparing lunch when there was a pounding on the door, the sound reverberating through the hall and shaking the house.

"My goodness! Who could that be?" he heard Aunt Petunia exclaim from the living room.

He continued with his task, his Aunt could deal with whoever was at the door.

The door clicked open, and he heard a loud gasp.

"Ello missus Dursley, is 'Arry in?" a voice boomed in question.

Curious at hearing his name, Harry put down the knife he was using to slice vegetables and peeked around the kitchen to look down the hall.

A humongous man was standing at the door, dwarfing Petunia with his massive size. He was wearing a large dark brown leather coat, and his entire face was nothing but beard and hair. A pair of black beetle-like eyes and a wide nose were the only visible facial features peeking out through the scraggly mess.

"Who are you and what do you want with the boy? He's not here." Petunia snapped, straightening her back and putting on brave face. Only the slight quiver in her voice hinted at the true fear that lay beneath her mask.

"I'm 'ere to take him to grab 'is 'ogwarts things!" The man replied, pushing past a sputtering Petunia as if she was nothing more than irritating bug.

As the man thudded toward to kitchen, he caught sight of Harry peering around the corner.

"Arry!" The man boomed excitedly. "Look at yer, all grown up! Yer got yer mother's eyes!" he continued, lumbering toward Harry, his beard contorting in a way that suggested he was grinning beneath the tangled fuzz. The black eyes glimmered with unshed tears.

Completely taken aback by the open friendliness of the stranger, Harry didn't know how to reply and acted on instinct. He squeaked audibly and darted back into the kitchen to calm his racing mind.

Hogwarts had sent someone to take him to get his school equipment! Which also meant that his letter had been ignored? Obviously if the giant man had been dispatched to come get him that meant that his attempt to frame the whole situation as a mistake failed. He wasn't sure if he was feeling happiness or annoyance at their obvious inability to take 'no' as an answer.

"Arry? You a'right, lad?" the man asked, looking down on him with concern.

Shocked by the sudden regard once again being aimed at him, Harry released an involuntary 'eep'. Blushing furiously in embarrassment, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"W-who are you?" he practically shouted, voice pitched and anxious. Without time to prepare to himself, an unexpected event like this wracked him with stress.

Looking confused but pleased by the question, the giant man let out a laugh and rested his hands across his belly.

"My name is Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts." He stated proudly. "You can call me Hagrid. Nice to meet you 'Arry, you were but a small baby last time I saw you."

Hagrid reached out as if to shake Harry's hand, but he jumped back at the large hand coming in his direction.

The giant man was visibly startled by Harry's quick movement away and retracted his hand, a slightly awkward atmosphere forming in the air around them.

"Well, uh, let's go be getting' yer school things then, Harry." said Hagrid, trying to dispel the discomfort.

"No!" shouted Aunt Petunia, face red and twisted in anger at the man who had come barging into her house. "He will not be attending that school for _freaks!_ " she bit out vehemently.

" _Freaks?"_ was Hagrid's enraged response. "Lily an' James weren't freaks! They were the best witch and wizard of their generation!"

"My parents were magic?" Harry interrupted.

Hagrid looked down at him, a stunned expression replacing his previous outrage.

"Magic? O' course they were magic! Yer didn't know?" he asked, "yer didn't tell 'im?" he yelled turning to Aunt Petunia. "Yer tellin' me you never told 'im?!"

"Tell him?" shrieked Petunia, "So he could become a freak like precious, perfect Lily?" she spat. " _Magic"_ she continued derisively, "did nothing but get her and her good for nothing husband BLOWN UP!"

Harry paled. His mum and dad had been blown up? What did that mean? But his confusion at the fate of his parents was halted as his brain fast-forwarded and a detail from an earlier comment caught up with him. Lily and James. The names of his parents. Lily and James Potter.

Hagrid's roaring and Aunt Petunia's shrieking faded into the distance, a muffled noise that grew quieter as the world rushed around him, swelling and then collapsing back down on him.

He found himself lying on the floor, his breathing fast and shallow, tears running down his face. The Darkling's rested around him making soft crooning noised and spread themselves over him like a warm blanket of darkness. Mundane sounds began to filter back through to him, the dripping tap, the chirping of birds from outside. No yelling though.

He forced his eyes to focus on the world around him. Aunt Petunia was nowhere to be seen. The angry looking man named Hagrid was looming over him, eyes shining with worry.

"Harry, lad, are yer alright?" Hagrid asked, reaching hesitantly toward him. He was feeling too lethargic and confused to react in time to the massive hand entering his field of vision.

However, Hagrid only placed his hand gently on Harry's head, a soft gesture that was surprisingly comforting.

"Ready to go get 'yer things, lad? Don't you worry, yer gonna be a great wizard just like yer Mum and Dad." Hagrid comforted.

Harry nodded hesitantly. He was magic. Like his parents.

* * *

Next chapter we'll do the Traditional 'harry goes to Diagon Alley for the first time' chapter :)

I'll try to put some more time aside each week for writing.


	8. Chapter 8: Tankards and Tables

Chapter 8. Tankards and Tables

AN: Thanks for the faves and follows, as usual I appreciate them a lot and they keep me motivated. Please also consider leaving a review from time to time, maybe you have some ideas or thoughts about the characters. I want to keep improving my story, so share with me your critiques.

If you haven't done so, please check out my other new fic 'Cursed Ring of Transfiguration' A second update of that fic is due this month (hopefully)!

 **Story so far:** Harry responds to the Hogwarts letters by sending some of his Darklings. However, Hogwarts doesn't take no for an answer and sends Hagrid instead.

* * *

Harry was feeling slightly dazed as he was led out of the house by the giant man. Hagrid was talking animatedly, but it was all just a pleasant hum to his dazed senses as he struggled to reconcile this new truth about himself.

A sudden BANG! shocked him out of his far-away state, and his eyes immediately zeroed in in the source. He instantly regretted it, a riotous purple colour searing his eyeballs painfully. Before him was a very out-of-place wonky and asymmetrical triple decker bus. 'The Knight Bus' was emblazoned in gaudy gold lettering across the front and sides of the bus. The Dursleys would faint if they ever laid their eyes on the monstrous eyesore.

Harry wondered if following the man named Hagrid had been a smart idea. The whole situation was surreal and he wasn't one hundred percent certain that he wasn't just having a bizarre hallucination as result of excessive exposure to bleach fumes.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard." said a female voice, delivering the scripted greeting in a monotonous deadpan tone. The young woman standing on the platform of the bus looked bored and uncaring. She wore a large conductors hat and an old ratty purple uniform that was probably over a hundred years old judging by its style and moth-eaten trims.

Hagrid heaved himself up onto the bus, the vehicle groaning under his weight and leaning to the side. Harry could only assume that it was magic preventing the whole thing toppling over onto its side.

Harry tuned out whatever conversation Hagrid was having with the apathetic conductress, too busy focusing on the Darklings exploration of the magic surrounding the bus. Bright threads in a tight knitted pattern formed a perfectly round sphere that encased the bus in its entirety. The bubble was predominantly a yellow tessellated hexagonal pattern, with green and blues layered over the top like a plaid kilt . He had no idea what the purpose of the bubble was, but he supposed he would find out sooner rather than later.

"Come along now lad, best not ta keep ta' bus waitin'", Hagrid said jovially as he finished counting out small bronze coins, assumingly for the bus fare. The woman took them with nary a glance to check if the amount was correct.

Harry scrambled onto the unsafe looking bus, yelping as the doors were almost slammed on him when the conductress pulled the control lever. He sent glare toward her, and her lip quirked minutely in amusement. She had almost smushed him on purpose.

He sent a nervous glance toward the driver who was squinting out through the window at the road ahead of him. He was an owlish looking old man with thick rimmed glasses, and he elicited a strong sense of unease in Harry. The bus had no other passengers, and Hagrid had taken his seat close to the back of the bus on a squishy blue dining chair, complete with a small round table and tea set.

Harry had barely taken one step in the direction of Hagrid when the bus started off so violently that he was tossed clean across the lower deck of the bus. It was only by the quick intervention of the Darklings that he didn't end up spattered across the back windscreen or impaled on the chair leg. The little creatures had put all their energy into altering his trajectory, sending him careening into Hagrid instead of instant death.

"Best to take a seat 'arry, the Knight Bus can get a bit rough." Hagrid informed him cheerily. Harry thought that 'a bit rough' was 'a bit of an understatement'. He nodded his reply, not certain that he would be able the keep his meagre lunch in his stomach. The last thing this rollercoaster-of-certain-doom required was vomit sloshing around in the cabin.

Unfortunately for him, none of the furniture in the cabin was bolted to the floor. Harry was almost thrown to the other side of the bus when the driver, who he was now absolutely sure was legally blind, decided to take a sharp turn down a narrow alley. Hagrid kept a tight grip on his shoulder, but at the first moment he could Harry took hold of the curtains hanging in front of the windows.

For the rest of the utterly terrifying trip he gripped the fabric with white knuckles, praying for the ordeal to be over and for his lifeline not to rip under the strain of his hold. Despite his terror, the Darklings were utterly delighted by this new adventure, expanding to fill the cabin. Some of them were even burying themselves into Hagrid's beard and impressive mane of hair. They had taking a liking to the giant, although it was hard to tell for certain at first. If they were to find Hagrid lacking in character, the playful burying would quickly turn into unpleasant mischief.

At least now he knew what the bubbled did. It was creating a path for the bus, forcing vehicles, lamp posts, and oblivious people (muggles, his mind supplied) to jump out of its path. Of course, all the non-magical people didn't seem to notice a thing. Then again, Harry didn't know if it was the bus forcing other things to move, or if the bus was being somehow altered and it just _looked_ like obstacles were jumping out of the way.

After what felt like an eternity, the bus finally arrived at its destination, stopping so abruptly that Harry lurched forward with such momentum that he feared his arms were dislocated. He was slightly awed by the integrity of the curtains which had barely a wrinkle despite his iron grip on them.

It was with shaky legs and great relief that he disembarked from the death-trap, promising to himself silently that he would rather walk all the way back to Surrey than risk permanent injury or death in that disastrous excuse for a bus.

Taking some deep breathes to calm down, he waited for his heartbeat to settle back to a normal rhythm before taking in the scenery around him. His return to his senses was expedited by the comforting presence of his Darklings swarming around him.

He found that he was at Charring Cross, where he had been only a handful of times with Aunt Petunia. She was forced to bring him along when no one had been available to babysit him when she came into town to do some shopping or errands.

His interest was immediately drawn to a dingy old pub with a rusty swinging sign in the shape of a cauldron. Hagrid was already merrily making his way to the establishment, and with a quick glance around him, Harry jogged to keep up with the longer strides of the large man.

Using his 'Darkling Vision', as he liked to call it in his own head, he could see that like the Knight Bus, the seedy pub also had rigid patterned magic wrapped around it. Compared to the wild, tangled magic of the rest of the street, it stuck out a like a sore thumb.

Entering the pub behind Hagrid, Harry looked around the room, taking in the bizarre dress of many of the patrons and the strange pipes and accessories many of them had. Over behind the worn bar, a jolly-looking balding barman flicked a stick around, sending cups filled with drink and dishes stacked with food flying around the room to customers who didn't seem to bat an eye at their food hurtling across the room willy-nilly.

Unfortunately, Hagrid was a large man and tended to attract significant attention wherever he went.

"Ah, Hagrid! The usual?" The barman called out with familiarity. Hagrid, it seemed, was a regular patron at the pub.

"Sorry, Tom. 'ogwarts business today. Takin' young Harry to get his school things." Replied Hagrid proudly. Harry got the impression that Hagrid was immensely pleased to have received the task of taking him to get his school equipment, although he couldn't understand why that would be.

He found out within seconds, though.

"By Merlin, it's Harry Potter." The barman gasped out after glancing Harry's distinctive scar.

Immediately, an unnatural hush fell upon the room. The previous conversations and atmospheric din smothered in a heavy expectation. Then all at once chaos erupted.

"Harry Potter! Pleasure to meet you!"

"Harry Potter! Please, shake my hand!"

"Are you really Harry Potter?"

"Look at his scar! He has the scar!"

It was as if the madness had gripped the men and women in the room, all of them clamouring toward him, shouting and reaching out to take his hands or touch his face, no, his scar.

Nerves, already frayed by his first exposure to magical transport, snapped as the crowd rushed to converge upon him.

Terror and anxiety rose within him swiftly and sharply. Reflexes, honed by years of dodging and ducking punches from Dudley and Uncle Vernon alike, kicked in and his adrenaline went into overdrive. He searched wildly for a place to hide, somewhere dark and enclosed where the grabbing hands could not reach. It was hard to breathe now, they were pressed around him, grasping at his clothes and clutching at him, tugging him in every direction.

He could see out the corner of his eye, a bench in the furthest, darkest corner of the room, and he wished desperately to be hidden beneath that table, _anywhere_ that was away from that moment.

Within the space of a second, he vanished with a resounding crack, only to find himself sequestered safely beneath the table he had been focusing on moment before. There was a shocked silence in the room, followed by screaming and yelling that Harry couldn't even begin to decipher. His breaths were fast and shallow, a panic attack tingling beneath his skin on a hair trigger.

But the yelling and screaming never even came close to him. He curled up in the safe confines of the shadows, gripping his knees to his chest and trying desperately to remain quiet.

"All of yeh, SHUT UP!" boomed Hagrid's voice. Harry shivered in fear, there was a rough and threatening edge to the shout. The frenzied yelling of the crowd was silenced immediately

"You lot best be ashamed of yerselves, scarin' 'Arry like that." He growled angrily at the crowd, "now, yer going to be explainin' to Dumbledore that Harry Potter went missin' because you couldn't leave the poor lad well enough alone."

"We'll go find him! Right this moment!" a woman squeaked out with a trembling voice.

"Yes, don't you worry Hagrid, he couldn't have gone far. Can you believe it though? Harry Potter can disapparate!" a man said, voice tinged with awe.

Harry didn't know what it meant to disapparate, but he wasn't sure that he liked the way the man was talking about it, like he had just performed something overly freakish. An excited murmur rippled through the room.

"Well, if yer gonna go look for 'im then yeh best start now," Hagrid interrupted, disrupting the whispering assembly of witches and wizards.

"Well, GET!" he thundered, spurring them all into action when they remained unmoving.

Harry could hear the scuffling of feat and scraping of chair legs as men and women stood from the streets. Doors creaked open accompanied by several sharp cracks that echoed through the room. Each loud crack made Harry jump a little and curl tighter into himself.

After several brief seconds the room was finally silent, except for the pounding in his ears. A small shuffling noise and whisper of cloth made him tense. He hadn't noticed, but someone was seated at the table that he had found himself hidden beneath.

He stifled a whimper and held his breath, trying to keep his body as motionless as possible. However, it was too late. The stranger stood, the silky robes swishing and crinkling. Slowly, the shadowy body lowered itself, until finally the man to whom the body belonged to was looking Harry straight in the eyes.

Harry stared frozen like a dear in caught in the headlights of a car, eyes wide and frightened. An involuntary tremor shook through his body and his breathe caught in his throat.  
The man had nervous air about him, and he gave Harry a nervous trembling smile. He had a huge a purple turban wrapped around his head.

The gentle smile and non-threatening demeanour calmed Harry a little, enough for his breathe to become unstuck and whoosh out of his mouth loudly. The stranger shifted uncertainly and cautiously, the smile starting to strain as Harry gulped down deep breaths. The Darklings wrapped themselves tightly and protectively around him. Some of them hissed and growled angrily at the turban-wearing wizard, while others cautiously creeped toward him to investigate.

"T-t-they've all g-gone now, Mr P-Potter. It's safe t-to come out." The man said softly with a slight stutter.

Harry hesitated. He knew the man was right, but the whole debacle from mere seconds ago had traumatised him, tainting his view of wizard-kind . Many things he had seen so far were amazing, but it was also insane, chaotic, and the reactions he had received from the pub patrons was extreme.

Feeling overwhelmed but emboldened by the peaceful nature of the man, Harry slowly untangled himself. His muscles protested, sore from being held so still and tense. He crawled out slowly from under the table, silently relieved when the stuttering wizard stood and shuffled backward to allow him more space.

Harry glanced around nervously. The pub had been mostly abandoned. Hagrid was seated at the bar, face buried in his huge hands. The bartender was pouring a frothy amber drink into a large tankard, which he handed to the clearly distraught giant.

"There, there Hagrid. Don't you worry, he'll turn up again soon." Tom, as Harry recalled, said comfortingly to Hagrid.

"I lost 'im, Tom! Poor 'Arry's out there all alone!" he wailed in response.

"N-no need to be upset H-Hagrid." The stranger interrupted, "Mr. Potter is s-safe and sound r-right here." He said, nervously placing his hand on Harry's shoulder, spasming and recoiling a moment later as if he'd been burned. Harry didn't say anything, and thought that maybe the man was unconscious reacting to the Darklings that reacted negatively to his intrusion in Harry's personal space. They were on high alert, light-hearted mischief evaporated to reveal their protective and aggressive inner-nature.

"HARRY!" Hagrid cried out, looking up in astonishment. Still feeling a little skittish, Harry flinched at the loud attention once more being directed toward him and shuffled back a few steps to duck behind the nervous man. This whole ordeal was giving him a pounding headache.

"I'm terribly sorry Mr. Potter. Had I know my words would have had such an effect, I would have never…" the bartender said, wringing a drying cloth between his hands.

Harry nodded jerkily but didn't say anything further. He was feeling wrung out and just as frayed as the cloth being abused by the bartenders restless fingers.

"W-well, I'd best be on my way," said the man with the turban, "I'll see you at beginning of term, Mr. P-Potter, Hagrid." He continues in farewell, anxiously skittering towards the door without giving a chance to respond.

Harry looked at Hagrid questioningly. Catching onto his train of thought, Hagrid answered the unspoken question.

"Professor Quirrell will teachin' Defence Against the Dark Arts this year at Hogwarts." He explained.

"Defence against the dark arts?" Harry asked, feeling a little calmer now that the room was quiet and mostly empty except for the apologetic bartender. Despite his size and booming voice, so far Hagrid had been friendly if not a little emotional. While Harry didn't trust Hagrid, finding the man a little out of touch and far too expressive and emotional, he did appreciate the gentle gleam in the man's eyes. The twisted tangle of magical threads that was Hagrid was far more comforting thena the ordered lines and perfect spheres of all the other witches and wizards he'd seen so far. There was something wild about Hagrid, and that made Harry feel that maybe he wasn't all bad, and could be trusted, to a degree.

"Defence against the dark arts is one of ta' classes you'll be in at Hogwarts." Hagrid began, "You'll learn 'bout defendin' yerself against nasty beasties and dark wizards."

Harry wasn't certain he believed Hagrid. Professor Quirrell had been jumpy and nervous, not exactly the paragon of bravery and strength he imagined when he thought about defending against evil.

"Well then Harry, why don't we get going? Got a lot'a things to do today, best not hang about ta' pub too long." Hagrid said eagerly, obviously keen to move away from the topic of Quirrell and be underway.

After the strong reaction he'd gotten from the pub patrons, Harry made a concerted effort to flatten his fringe over his scar. They had all been intent on it, scrambling to touch it and look at it, as if it were some prized artefact on show at the museum. He'd felt like a caged animal at a freakshow when they'd clamoured all around him, except there were not bars to protect him from their grabbing hands.

The Darklings, in all their intuitive wisdom, decided to help by perching on his glasses and holding his hair down for him. It disturbed his vision slightly, but anything was better than receiving that sort of attention again. Once was enough.

Following Hagrid out to a side alley, he watched in fascination as the gaint tapped the brick wall with a frilly pink umbrella that he'd pulled from _somewhere_ in his coat.

The pattern tapped out was specific, like a musician strumming the strings a guitar, the clear chord rang through the little side alley. Enlivened by the clear note, the bricks came to life, shaking, shifting, clacking and clicking together in a neat ordered manner until they formed perfect arch.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley!" Hagrid stated heartily.

* * *

AN:

I'm still not feeling that dialogue is a strong point for me, so I struggled through this chapter. Not to worry, I have some ideas for the next chapter, I tend to work on chapters bit-by-bit over the week depending on RL commitments which is why they are so short (sorry!). Anything that people would like to see next chapter? Feel free to leave a review or send me a PM 😊


	9. Chapter 9: Breakneck Speed

AN: Hi everyone, this fic is not abandoned! RL just gets in the way from time to time. Anyway, please enjoy this update.

 **So far:** Harrry and his demonic fairy minion things finally arrive in Diagon Alley. He had a poor reaction to being recognised in the Leaky Cauldron, accidentally disapparated, and met a rather nervous Professor Quirrell.

* * *

His first look at Diagon Alley made Harry drop his jaw involuntarily. Even in his wildest fantasies he could not have dreamed up a scenery so surreal and whimsical.

Spitting and grabbing at his mouth, he chased off a fly that had tried to make the cavern of his mouth its home. Irritated that his marveling had been interrupted by his near ingestion of unwanted protein, he firmly closed his mouth and focused his full attention on the sights surrounding him.

The tension and hesitation brought on by the unpleasantness of the pub scene was washed away under the deluge of raucous noise and joyful laughter. The whole Alley was lit up like a Christmas tree as spiralling magic pulsed and flowed, forming intricate fractals that bursting like New Year's Eve fireworks. It was blindingly beautiful, the bursts of colour searing into his retina. Harry knew from that moment on that he wholeheartedly _loved_ magic with all his being.

The burning chaotic magic rippling across the sky and dodging between patrons was in stark contrast to the neat, orderly magic of witches of wizards embedded into the structures and the cobblestone paths.

It reverberated around him, and he almost couldn't keep in the pure euphoria brought on by being exposed to such a primal source of magic. It thrummed through his fingertips and down his very core. His soul was drowning in magic, trapped in the sweetest rapture.

In response, the Darklings practically exploded around him, growing exponentially, whizzing around the Alley. They curiously explored the bright and cheery shopfronts, slipped between cracks, and slithered into the darkest and deepest shadows of Knockturn Alley. They too could feel the purity of the magic which converged in the Alley.

Harry was snapped out of his trance by Hagrid's booming laughter, amusement sparkling in his black eyes.

"Come along 'Arry, there'll be plenty of time for lookin'," he said with a chuckle, "we gotta get yer money first."

"Money?" Harry asked. "What do you mean?" He wasn't sure what Hagrid meant about going to go get his money. If he did have any money, surely the Dursley's would have spent it all by now. Maybe that's how they afforded so many presents for Dudley ever year? They'd get to the bank, and the teller would tell them the account is empty, and Harry would be sent back to Dursley's on account of being too poor to go to school.

The shininess and excitement of Diagon Alley dimmed with each step Harry took, the sense of dread growing the closer he got to his destination. By the time they reached the steps of a towering white structure, his anxiety was a set of gnarled fingers viciously twisting and tying his intestines into knots. Harry's eyesight was blurred and his breathing fast. The goblin guards with their pointed grins went unseen, and he followed Hagrid without thought, concentrating on suppressing the bile that threatened to spill up and out of his mouth.

The conversations around him became a muffled buzz, the word growing far and distant.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and he startled so violently that if weren't for Hagrid's strong grip, he would have jumped three feet into the air.

"Are you alright 'Arry?" Hagrid asked, brows drawn with a concern, an unusually serious look on his face.

"Yes," Harry gulped, "just o-overwhelmed." he muttered quietly. Hagrid seemed to take his assurance at face value and began to lead Harry further into the bank.

"C'mon, the goblins are takin' us down to yer vault." Hagrid said.

Slowly regaining his bearings, Harry finally noticed the strange creatures sitting up on high podiums, towering above the nervous witches and wizards conducting their business.

The hall was ostentatious, glittering fixtures, deep polished woods, and thick marble columns supporting the arched ceiling. The interlocking patterns of the crown moulding were not merely decorative, Harry could see the distinct magic of the goblins winding elegantly through the patterns, far more beautiful and delicate than the outwardly hideous creature responsible for their creation.

The goblins watched the magical humans with shrewd expressions, mouths twisted in distaste and the subtle undercurrent of unspoken contempt winding through the atmosphere. Harry had the vague sense that given the chance, they'd eat him alive skin and bones. Even the Darkling's kept their distance, warily slinking around the creatures.

Feeling nervous and confused, Harry walked with Hagrid behind the short waddling goblin. He called his Darkling's back to him, taking comfort from the way they tightly weaved themselves around him. Concern for Harry outweighing their inherently curious and mischievous nature.

Harry warily eyed the rickety looking cart the goblin led them to.

"Get in now, we don't have all day." The goblin groused, rather unnecessarily in Harry's opinion.

Hagrid was the first to climb into welded iron cart. It was a bit like watching a clown car in reverse. How the giant fit into the small space defied all logic, and while Harry strongly suspected magic might have something to do with it, it was still strangely disconcerting. For all his childhood, small spaces had protected him for larger and meaner enemies, and now suddenly a giant could fit into a tiny cart? A tiny, unbidden spark of anger rushed up inside of him at that thought.

Feeling betray and upset, Harry climbed into the magical contraption, leaning as far away as he could from the goblin, and the seemingly oblivious Hagrid.

"Please ensure you keep all arms, legs, limbs, wands, clothing, magical devices, creatures, familiars, and other items inside the trolley at all times." The goblin droned in a way that indicated that the phrase was repeated numerous times daily to various patron.

With a screech, the cart began to move off. For the first few seconds it moved at perfectly pleasant and reasonable pace. However, from one second to the next, the leisurely trip became a nightmare roller-coaster.

The cart whooshed down the railing at incredible speed, a sudden and stomach dropping descent had Hagrid turning green, and Harry himself feeling not much better. The cart careened dangerously around corners, threatening to tip over the edge to send them hurtling into the abyss. Harry clutched onto the cart, half terrified and half thrilled with all the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

When the cart finally came to stop, he lurched forward, coming perilously close to braining himself, and ending his poor life in a rather unfortunately damp and dark cave.

With shaky legs he disembarked, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. The Darkling's were chittering and clicking with excitement. The magic down so far beneath the earth was darker than that of the surface. The strands of magic winding through the stone were pulsing and thrumming, far thicker and stronger than the thin threads and webs above. The goblin magical of the massive vault door before him was tied in and around the dark think ropes but was clearly alien in comparison.

The goblin moved forward, inserting a small golden key into a seemingly random spot and turning it exactly forty-five degrees anti-clockwise. A strange mechanism ground to life somewhere behind the door. Letting out several clicks and high-pitched whirring noises. With a dramatic hiss, the door swung open, and Harry could do nothing but blink in confusion.

Before his eyes was a massive room, piled high with gold, and silver, and bronze coins. In addition, he could also see silver-wear, glittering jewels, dusty old tomes, and several wands on the numerous shelved lining the walls.

"Well then Harry, best get enough for yer school shopping today." Hagrid boomed out with a hint of laughter in his voice, "You didn't really think yer parents wouldna left yer nothin' did yer?" He laughed.

Harry just continued to gape at the sight before him. The goblin huffed rudely and shoved a small leather pouch into his hands.

"Hurry up, wizard, we don't have all day." He grumbled sharply.

Galvanized into action, Harry scrambled forward and grabbed handfuls of the strange coins, stuffing them unceremoniously into the pouch. The Darkling's tittered, a few butterfly shaped ones flapping over to the shelves to perch delicately on the wands and glittering jewels. Their spider-like legs wriggled around the perches, looking far less innocent than real butterflies. A few of them clicked and hissed angrily when one of the wands released a series of sparks.

Hagrid didn't seem to notice, but the goblin eyes the wands warily. As he called the Darkling's back to himself, he could have sworn he was the goblin track the movement of his small companions. Feeling a spike of anxiety, he finished gathering up his funds, and quickly exited the vault.

Hagrid explained cheerily the currency of the wizarding world, leaving Harry a touch confused about how magical people could possibly remember such arbitrary numbers for how many sickles in a galleon and so on. By the time Hagrid finished his explanation as the goblin once more locked the vault, Harry had forgotten everything except for the names of each of the coins.

This time, when the goblin indicated to get into the cart, Harry clambered in with far more trepidation than before. He tried to seat himself in a more central position in the cart, hoping to avoid permanent brain damage or death at the next stop.

"Can yer make these go a bit slower?" Hagrid asked hopefully.

The goblin smirked unpleasantly back at them.

"Sorry, only one speed." He stated.

The next trip was even faster than the first.

Harry wasn't sure what they were doing at this second vault. Then again, he hadn't exactly been listening the earlier, too busy trying to control his panic attack.

The goblin approached the strange door, with its many gears and buttons, and weird protrusions. He ran his sharp, pointed nail down the center groove. Harry could see some strange sucking magic in the door, pulling magic from the goblin itself.

The doors swung open and Hagrid lumbered into the room, picking up a small package wrapped in twine and brown paper. He placed into an inside pocket of his coat and gave it pat.

The journey back to the surface was thankfully quick, although Harry wondered why it is always felt like they were descending even though they were ascending. He got the feeling that maybe goblins just liked messing with people's minds, and not in a fun way. Or at least, not fun for their poor victims.

Exiting the bank and onto the busy street sent his anxiety skyrocketing. After the quiet and dark bank, this lively alley was suddenly a whole new roller-coaster of his own. Barely having begun his shopping trip, he was already feeling emotionally and physically exhausted. From the leaky cauldron, to the terrifying trolleys, Harry knew today was going to be a trial. Let the shopping begin.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Please let me know if you spot any typos. Follow and review if you are enjoying. I hope to get chapter 10 out, maybe this year considering my track record XD


End file.
